"Among them, but not of them," Byron
It is so cold out here,
my skin moves briefly
and then falls silently
leaving the first brittlewhite
bones shining.
I can see laughter
crashing around the fire
made with so many hands
Don't open the door,
I can't come into your red room
there is no safety for me there.
Don't put out your hand.
I'll only see how white wrong and isolate mine is.
Don't offer me a coat
this flesh that falls is at least my own.
Your warmth might tear away that little still mine.
If you see my face at your window,
stare and gesture to remind me
of the crooked path
that is always mine
when I look for welcome.
10:39 PM on 10/28/97, Originally 1989