who come to gnaw on my memories
to menace me by spinning things on
their fingers, to pinch and goad. They come
to hang on me up six flights of stairs and then they
block me from entering my home, that sort of thing.
I could be sleeping but I am making changes
for the visitors, shifting language
enough to alter the landscape as I try
to describe what they cannot see. What
I have seen is peculiar to them. The visitors
hum always, into the night, at dawn, in the middle
of the day a loudness from these visitors.
My head on a pillow: a hum.
I have visitors always canceling
the efforts I make to reduce them, to cordon
them off into a quiet section somewhere, they reappear always
despite my efforts, so I am giving in to them. Once
I took a dead woman's ring off her
cold finger and handed the ring to her
daughter, not so long ago, not so long.