They screamed, Get out!
and I’ve become a pile
of trash that mumbles
to itself on the sidewalk
while others go toward home.

In a little room
behind my forehead
people are talking about me.
They’re at a table
and they have yellow voices.
I’m a bell
they’ve buried in the snow.

Sometimes I feel
so vast, the stars
come out upon my skin.
And each night I hope
to meet a stranger
who’ll be a friend.

A man drags a woman to a car,
a drunken streetlight
dribbles in the gutter;
the same fool stares
at the broken glass
in a parking lot,
as if it were the starry sky.

1950