Stranger words

Stabbing likeness, purple light-bulb, chewing glass, as if the entire planet were to sing three fine songs and the deepest canyons would swell, inside out, touch face, slip a hand in yours, say, all poetry is made up of overly metaphorical sentences; touch face, now safe, a blue blanket in the rain, shrunken over her frame, "You're going to kill me," she says into her hands, and unintelligent nonsense could sound better if only it were coming from someone different, someone close, but away, someone strange who is strange and often alone. Stranger gloves in winter, found beneath the car seat; hands so cold, no one should have to bear that, but I know, regardless, some do.