tumbling — dreamlike — conjured through space
glides our Trapeze, so doll-like with painted face
she takes her bow in ballet’s third position
patrons clapping hands, like thunderous butterflies

but this time as she swings her form
sloping downward up and round again
her elegant motion stalls, caught
in disbelief she thinks, “the Rigging.”

ropes choke and fibres feel
she’s linchpinned to the pinnacle
spotlight illuminates each bead of sweat
still Trapeze or now merely Sculpturette?  

For observers’ pleasure most intense
she’s now kept forever in suspense

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