They don’t see you coming with the TV Guide.

Their compound eyes scan past the edges.

Makes two, says Candace, whose hair

corkscrews over her ears. Whosoever

opens the door lets in flies. They sit

on glass and wait like a self portrait

on the outside — whosoever walks through

dendritic snow; who calls and calls

from a cell; who flies past people

on a broom, when a wood floor rocks

the moon, when time clicks heels;

whosoever holds a word back;

lives life as if it were a death; walks

through this house, this waiting presence.

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