Poem at the Fairground

Tuba's a sun & beneath it
the fair's passing by,
see it breathing out old
Captive Pegasuses.
This fair
is a wheel.
A lightwheel high up
in the night.

See the carousel making
concentric circles,
see them snake through the atmosphere
up to the moon.
And a boy all the poets
have lost,
& a music box grinding away
on the breeze.

Federico García Lorca