It was on a cool winter day
when the wind shifted blue and swift,
that I met a man who said he knew my name
shivering cold in a bus stop kiosk.
This man, in tattered suit and tie
pressed his hand to my shoulder,
and pleaded I show him the place that I live,
as he shook like the revelation.
In a moment of weakness, I took his hand
and led him to the small place I stayed at,
with it’s dingy curtains, my little home,
my little ray of sun in which to rest.
He moved, not rude, to the room
where stood there a half done woman
smooth bare flesh, icy limbs, stoney breast
the beginning of a hand at the end of a wrist.
He slinked like a spider to a couch and sat
and said nothing. I tried to tell what it was
that made me let him in, but instead
And talked of this great shining world inside me
threatening to burst from under my skin
if I should let it stand like water
If I did not let it free
and he talked
Of the silence inside him
his blackened inside from freezing snow
of his scraping hollow fingerbones
of the hunger of his slowly starving heart
and I cut the stone of her flesh and listened
as he told me of things no one could know
of the cutting fall and the urn of his belly
like a sieve filling up and leaking
shaking and spraying
all who stood near.
So we did not eat, and, when the sun went down
I gave in a place on the couch
where I knew he would not be
in the morning.