We’re not so beautiful as we seem;
All those moonlit people floating
Along the roadside, caught in the current
Of the night air-- damp, like
Breathing rain-- and moving like celestial ice that dusts
The trail of a shooting star.
We’re not so pastorally serene--
The lightness of the autumn sun
In our hair, glistening like the hay and
The long grass beyond-- when hidden under crisp air
In layers of quilting and blankets.
We’re not so much the proper ladies-- velvet and
Prim, resting precariously on soft cushions--
With our colors like petals and the sands of beaches
That go on for miles and miles.

No, we’re not made so perfectly romantic as literature;
Lines serve us better when they’re made with words, and each curve and angle is viewed
Best through eyes that remain shut.  We’re tired and stretched and too loud inside--
At a loss for peace except for in the vanished dreams that draw out long faces--
We’re too much the reality the world has grown accustomed to hiding.
We’re not so beautiful as we seem.