I watch them as others do while they leigh in the
perfumery of warm urine, their hands outstretched they quake and quiver from cold.

Their jaundice-blue flesh is adorned with variegated weaving, which conceals them and keeps them camouflaged, correlated with the evening’s debris.

And I can neither look toward them nor can I deny them.

So as my salted tears run the maze of lines

I take quiet steps in the shadow of my guilt

having acknowledged the anguish and compassion of my love.