She swings along moontide
they say and opens up sunshine,
pulls out every bit of air
for every frozen breath on earth
her plastic feet march her
down all the lonely dreams

they say, knocking on doors
of the empty five and dimes
asking, ’Wher’d’yuh go?’ and ‘Huh?’
and they say, ’It’s a miracle!
Look, see what she brings —
what grows in her shadow!’

She labors over what she
came to know during that
long hot walk in Boston
last year that she still
has not explained to anyone
least of all herself

and yet they moan on, ’Come!
Come knock on my door! Dig in,
open my heart! Remind
me to breath!’ So she turns
and walks on, plucks one
doorbell after another, fuddled

all the while by that hum
in the back of her head