She stood quietly.

The way of the garden.

Their pink foreheads.

Speaking in tongues.

She didn't notice much.

One knee in the mud.

Stretched like taffy.

The morning light.

Through the eye of the needle.

Like the Buddhas they are still there.

The streets were crowded.

She was polite.

The conversation never stopped.

Trained to be nice.

Good morning was not part of his vocabulary.

She put on her glasses and took a look.

Whole days go by.

The two intersect.

Running to meet him at the door.

Elbowing for room.

Would he like it?

She can smell them.

Watching television.

She prays for the world.

Please.

She isn't here.

They want to be warm.

They don't lie.

Crooked.

In its winter blanket.

There's likely nothing left.