They don’t see you coming with the TV Guide.
Their compound eyes scan past the edges.
Makes two, says Candace, whose hair
corkscrews over her ears. Whosoever
opens the door lets in flies. They sit
on glass and wait like a self portrait
on the outside — whosoever walks through
dendritic snow; who calls and calls
from a cell; who flies past people
on a broom, when a wood floor rocks
the moon, when time clicks heels;
whosoever holds a word back;
lives life as if it were a death; walks
through this house, this waiting presence.