Freewheeling now, then looping

through figures of eight
and perfect ellipses,
her slim-bodied grace punctuates
the late-evening Big Top
with black and silver moments.

Muscle memory keeps her
poised along delicious tangents
to the sphericals of gravity;
she’s a parabola now
arching across the undefined space
between life, death and swinging trapezes.

Above her the tent
lets in a sky bullet-riddled
with stars glimmering
in distant cosmic counterpoint
to the rhinestones and paste diamonds
on a pair of leotards.

Below a tin pan band plays rock and roll
and a crowd popcorned,
candyflossed, open-mouthed
and eager-throated, awaits make or
break moments in a five-rupee
evening’s worth of fun.