Enclosure, steam-heated; a trial casket. <br />You are here; your name on a postal box; <br />entrance into another place like vapor. <br />No one knows you. No one speaks to you. <br />All of their cocks stare down their pant legs <br />at the ground. Their cunts are blind. They <br />barely let you through the check-out line. <br />Have a nice day. Plastic or paper? <br /> <br />Are you origami? A paper folded swan, <br />like the ones you made when you were ten? <br />When you saw the constellations, lying <br />on your back in the wet grass, <br />the soapy pear blossoms drifting <br />and wasting, and those stars, the burned out ones <br />whose light was still coming in waves; <br />your body was too slight. <br />How could it hold such mass? <br />Still on your lips the taste of something. <br /> <br />All night you waited for morning, all morning <br />for afternoon, all afternoon for night; <br />and still the longing sings. <br />Oh, paper bird with folded wings.<br /><br />Ruth Stone<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/at-eighty-three-she-lives-alone/
