Some of us never learned

to twirl a banded hoop
around our hips, never

learned to shake the belly
of the dance; or never coaxed
a rain of templed silences

from open lips of bells.
What brassy notes winds croon,
the blossoms know already—

We lean our heads
against the rain; eventually,
our colors stain the pavement.

 

In response to Via Negativa: Makeshift.

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