Tin Foil

You fear the light receding from the large house: lamp by lamp turned off

until the windows’ beady eyes turn to see you.

And then when the day spills onto the carpets and the doorways

and on the food on your table:

You are tin foil coiled and kicked.

It would take an artisan’s hands to smooth you out.

Your Place

Daughter of mine,

you were raised:

in the pasture

below city stars

in a mud hut

in front of the jury of my peers.

I know you were brought from above

to your corner of

gravity.

So no matter, stay

in your glass building, in your

bungalow tucked close:

This is not where you hang your

coat, anyway.