The Dancers

It is because
I fear to wake them
behind the bolted door
of dreams.

The starving eyes,
the fragile ribs,
hollow gourds
on Shiva's belt.

They dance as
he dances
upon the
withered plain.

It is because
I fear to
name them.

The night whispers
their names,
calling their
twisted faces
to me.

Will you hide with me,
with the future
between the pages
full-color ads?

Here they have no names.

They are
shadows of rags,
shifting dots
on the television screen,