Sometimes these pages are a little hard to turn with it.
OK, the next it's called Sharing the Light.
I won't try to explain it, I'll just brief.
Sharing The Light
Patrons, they bring their own eggshells for us to walk on
They reach out hands like icicles,
they've come to console us
Our stomach muscles harden, talk spills from our faces
spreading the stain on their clean shirts
There is no white on Earth to compare with it
Their moonbeams, the flat disk murmuring prayers
at our windows
Bee's drowsy with pollen
The light plays over us and we keep nodding
Our green stalks, something to nibble like celery
Their fingers polite with the juice
Tall shadows cut the light into squares
They can handle words that fit inside a repeating rifle,
straight as bullets
At dusk eye shadows meet them on the pavement
The light keeps walking toward us on stilts