Brisé

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There is great lightening without rain. “A bad omen,” says the crone.

A deer runs through the camp and entangles his antlers.
“A good omen.” pronounces the man who slit the beast’s throat.

Stramboli says nothing. He dreams. He is on the high wire.
Crowds crane to watch. Gracefully he dances:
pirouette and grand jeté, passé, and grand-plié. The crowd thunders approval.

He hasn’t had such a dream since his fall. What use have the paralyzed for dreams?

Stramboli lets the balance pole drop. It falls away. He follows.
Death,” he wonders, “is it a good omen or bad?”

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