2

There are superfluous people about in
this world, out of sight, who
aren't listed in any directory: and
home for them is a rubbish heap.

They are hollow, jostled creatures:
who keep silent, dumb as dung, they are
nails catching in your silken hem
dirt imagined under your wheels.

Here they are, ghostly and invisible, the
sign is on them, like the speck of the leper.
People like Job in this world who
might even have envied him. If.

We are poets, which has the sound of outcast.
Nevertheless, we step out from our shores.
We dare contend for godhead, with goddesses,
and for the Virgin with the gods themselves.