We are so small here, we are almost not people.
We are trying to make a living out of cloth,
By stitching things up, tearing out the seams,
By withdrawing from the certainties of place
To fit in a smaller house, a closer room.

We knit our tights. We press the stopper lower,
Trying to cleanse everything with sweat.
We must have a slipper that someone
Will pick up; we must have a magical cow.
But this one only wears flowers on her purse

And that one looks down at her toes.
She cannot reach. She tries and tries
And, failing, hurries back. We are more
Than willing to take her in here.
We have tried the same thing many times.