you are by “however”--
Bastille Day in any other
month, and no excuses,
just the usual guarded

swerving against the red
on the right side
of a square curtain
threaded together

of bamboo thin
as tendrils escaping a coif.
You watch the untethered
kite with a wistful

feeling of farewell
as it wobbles and ducks
shallow in a sky
divided by swabs,

not sailors or short
Swabians but gobs of mist,
for a time
the most volatile of identities.