THE DEATH OF PETRUSKA

THE DEATH OF PETRUSHKA

A cry sounded on the path. The stalls closed. The crowd dispersed. A flutter, like the flutter of birds, Or of the heart, or like the quick, small Pulsing flutter of sex. Stuffing Oozed from the breach. Sawdust To sawdust, rags to rags. The Moor had lain him low And disappeared into life With his bright strumpet. Thus He lay, abused so and dying On the fair-ground. Thus he died, And dying left his mortal rags To shriek a final curse at his creator, To semaphore his hate above the painted boothes And die again, his swinging ghost Forgetting its own mortal puppet soul