Festivals and wicker fences
The pale pink
of our faces

leaves traces
of our kaleidoscopic

summersaults
against the indentations

of the old wicker fences
in the neighborhoods

where dawn used to
shatter itself overhead

so perfectly. Our
language used to

be as flawlessly
spoken as wind chimes

and the white tents
of the festivals glimmer

in the whipping wind; the
sun conquers their glow,

outwits them, and the
priestess with her deck

of cards weaves tall tales
of who we will grow up

to be – how our shadows
will depart from the

forefront of fences,
from the old concrete

as though we had never
been reborn at all.