I visit my market morning, noon, eve,

To look but not touch the vendor’s rich wares;

The fabrics, each roll and every sleeve,

And when I am done, leave secret despairs.

Then home I return to wonder and want

My old, threadbare, frayed rags be that fine silk;

So I scream in the silence, these b’haunt,

Spitting green flames at all not of my ilk.

I cry to the stars till my throat is mute

And see in the river myself alight;

I smother the flames and end the dispute,

And I see what lies beneath, just as bright.

Tatters like satin, the holes be their shine,

For within they hold stories, ours and mine.