Jorge, the Flame Swallower

My brothers wield thin torches through Urbino

or Leon, where gypsy tents blossom

like carnivalsa blur of silk, glint of steel

or flame.  Parents sent me half way around

the world to forget their scorched throats,

but university lectures filled my lungs

with smoke.  With vagabonds I found sparks

of memory from before my birth.  Crowds watch

my act with Hellish delight.  My mind smolders,

but they just want fiery tricks.  My flames

should be kindled from ancient wood foraged

by village maidens.  Here girls use what’s left

of my library for their watery plays.  From the back

of the tent I watch Nina flutter like light.