There are demons at the window

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,
angels, too,
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.