When we take off our heads underneath them, in the spine and neck, there we will find a circus to attend, you and me, the cotton-candy surly pink and magical, our vision swelling. And the waves dissipating on our tongues as they will, in the necks of us, seeing lions tamed and motorcycles roaring up and around a steel ball, defying all that we know to be true. The ringmaster, the clowns. And the gut of us, our smiling laughing response is how a circus goes, challenging our headless bodies to fall into further imagination, picking us apart, even bodies only as we are. And when the tents close up and we are chauffeured out the heads we have been holding in our hands will go back on our right bodies and the day of tigers and top hats will finish, though the veins in our necks will still pulse occasionally with the bleating of high-wire bands.