STRANGERS
 
 
 
 

Those who are strangers
are
our
most intimate companions.

Those close
have shoved us
into closets.

Strangers did not come near us,
leave us
out in the open.
 
 
 

OLD WOMEN
 
 
 
 

Old women
wearing
blindfolds
prowl
on paths of bone
through my body,
stumbling.

The old women
to my blood that they cannot see
tell stories
about ideal cities and about the felicity
of forgetting
about what is lost in language.

If I could find these old women
I'd open my skin
and order them out,
so they could see
wild bees
flying toward dark wood and honeycombs.
 
 
 

THE USELESS AND THE USED
 
 
 
 

Put needles
in a crystal bottle,
watched
the parabola of emptiness
in the eye that never would be threaded.
Saw silent gold tips on static silver streaks.
This object was called "Art."

I recall sewing a scarlet albatross made from cloth scraps
on a white quilt.
As my hand moved, the needle's gold tip
flashed and spoke.