Passing me
in an empty street,
men think they hear
the urgent sea.
Waves curl in
after each other,
ranks of marchers
in scummy foam.

 

I jangle the bracelets
on my ankles,
dance to the tune
of my tone-deaf heart.

 

Unbalanced in their bodies,
men notice weeds
that break through
sidewalks,
velvety mullein,
chicory’s ragged blue.

 

The rowdy ocean
churns forward.
I’m pale as a napkin,
pale as the moon.
I wear ten rings
on my bloodless hands.