Alloy

Your watermelon curve entices,
fruit of the summer festival,
of revelry and freedom

your articulated joints alive
against my skin as I breathe,
shifting weight as I bend and flex.

I trace your cobbled surface –
explore, once more, the paved streets
of the Petit Champlain;

slip through holes in old stone walls
into tiny shops of curiosity and glimpse
your wrought elegance, beckoning;

find myself amidst the clatter and hum
of the night markets, following
the rich warmth of paper lanterns,

red glowing beads that hang from stall corners
in alleys of elongated shadows,
and feel the swift joy of being unknown.