The Carnival Was Here

the house itself is barely there, concealed above the street
the garden hovers behind, a shy child in his mother's skirt
and while the wild festival weekend of drums and feasting
begins to politely take its leave of us
in perfumed shades of blues, greens, and purples

priests and acolytes gather in a garden that floats over the alley
and suffuse it in the haze of a holy rite

the herbs dance haphazardly around the ring

glancing over the spindly ironwork

that suspends us all in the least of likely corners

and dusts the faces of the congregated with the intimacy

of an open secret
sanctifying and sacred

we palace children exulting in privilege
embroider the evening in song and lace it with laughter
insolently entreating the festival to remain an hour more
and though we cannot keep her from slipping demurely away
she consents to tag the gathered pilgrims with a kiss