On each side, the circus tent

That flap on the side of stretched out hide canvas tent.
It catches the eye, as the mouth gnaws on a caramel apple.
Little, tiny feet, in little, tiny shoes, shuffle across
strawn laden sand, carfeully avoiding mines of manure,
for Mother will be upset if there is a mess to clean, her tut tuts are always flitting.

That flap on the side of the stretched out hide tent,
they say its an air filter, but it didn't register, too preoccupied, gnawing on an old bone.
Heavy, sedate hands, upon which you rest your tired head
are gripping the table of worn away splinters in waiting.
Staring at that flap, stirring in the breeze, shadows always flitting.

That flap, that little devilish mouth that winks in the sun.
What could be in there, hidden and waiting?
It must be a good surprise, for everything is good and surprising here;
miniature hands feel the rough and calloused exterior, rubbing, petting.
Small puffs of air bounce off the fibrous wall, sticky fingers begin to explore the dark.

That flap, that terrible devilish mouth that yawns, gaping, laughing in the night's gusts.
What is out there, so loud, so mystifying?
It must be terrible, for why else would there be walls, a separation?
It is cool and dank and dark. From time to time, smallest creatures on the most miraculous amounts of legs visit. The only annoyance, light that cuts in the dark.

That flap, that widening mouth, that irreparable hole.
So this is where food goes, so this is the time before the marvel of electricity-
pupils dilate, pudgy body quivers, a bruised knee brings tears.
Wrapped in the flap, once oh so inviting, in a split of time the day has departed
and struggling only makes its suffocating hug tighter.

That flap, that pesky pinhole, that punctured side in a perfect universe.
So this is where breath goes, when exploration is a word unwritten-
pupils shrink in pain, the body quakes, a fire of monstrous proportions
reigns down and where there was nothing but tranquil solidity
comes depth and confusion, variety, monsters, and panic grips tighter.

That flap, heavy arms, the brute of ill-manners,
flailing, a fish, is all that instinct leaves to do.
Tears now as darkness, impenetrable, swallows all initiative and the coldness overruns;
the sounds outside muffled, the smells hidden in harsh scents, afterimages of tanning.
All still, the cords entangling.

That flap, cruel betrayer, harsh philosopher,
splaying its tongue in mockery, now regret, remorse is felt in stark revelation.
Tears as incendiary light burns the skin, sounds of everything from micro to macro, the absolute, breaking eardrums which had once played only in soft silent soliloquy.
All sounds cease, all light is denied, senses, memories, identity entangling.