SOMETIMES

. . . there is only myself
and I am small in this open place
and that which keeps me living
beats on the outside of me
where everyone can see

and the color of myself
is white sky.

So much paleness and evidence 
of bruising cannot be allowed
before innocent neighbors
and children.
But before they send a clean-up
crew with canvas gloves
to remove me,
the eyesore,

suddenly

like the drum that begins the First
Brahms
the edges of everything
begin to burn.

			Lucille Murphy