A long, low dark cloud spans the sky, blessing the day.

The festival’s over. The unseen sun tints a band of pink over the charcoal cloud; the pink is on the tents.

Here’s Pee Wee in his feathers and scraps hunting lost coins and cans.

Jiiva in orange prays “Nam Myoho Renge Kyo” on the stage where last night a girl sang, “It’s my party and I’ll cry if I want to.”

“People are pigs!” grunts the man in the sleeveless shirt, piercing paper.

“Gone home! Gone home!” shriek the gulls, scavenging a scummy surf of dinner detritus.

The dogwalker runs behind her three pups.

I’m running on cups, plates, fragments of soft-shell crab, cotton candy cones, purple burst balloons, grass pressed flat.

O where is the place—there’s a map in my heart—where we fell apart from each other—my leap from the high wire too soon. Instead of your hand, I touch Hermes’, pulling me down.

Joanna Wiebe, 1984