Where I Can Be Lost

When the colors of the morning are only approaching shadows,
I glean praises from my neighbor’s mouths
and spin them in the part of my mind that says hello,
washing the letters of my name before I am called again.
Before I turn to be with them, my complexion is arranged
so that they look at themselves.

My face would have the dew of grass
so that they think I am simple -
no one would know what to say
to a person who walks on the earth -
I would amble to the woods, slung with a bag of rice
and they would claim that I was real.

Above city lights, after I have worked,
I could forget the telling of mirrors -
no speaking would satisfy me
where my hands can be lost
in grasping - I would close my eyes
and not remember how to open them.