great aimless ones
who can become
disillusioned on sidewalks,
who can read footsteps aloud
in spurts of music,
who bring dreams like bread and wine.
At night I stay in
and beat against my windows with brooms,
crouching alone inside,
waiting for angels of pestilence.
I have a very thin skin,
and it is not a toy,
and I choke on it.
There are demons at the window,
and rags tied to leafless branches
and hideous crawling things;
I want to tear open the shutters
but am frozen in fear.
Last night I acted in a play
in which I was myself and mother and father—
it’s always like this,
I argue with myself asleep and on streetcorners
like the working homeless,
like the dead parade.