They are too much with me.
I let them in too close.
I let them burrow too deep.
They wander into secret places where they
carelessly thrash about
breaking crockery
upon which they and I cut
ourselves.

Keep shut the doors.
Bar the windows.
Pull the shades.
They can press their faces
against the glass
and I will not see them.
If they bang on the door,
turn up the music to which I dance
alone.

There will be no more
broken crockery
upon which to open up
my feet.