Strangers

The eyes of strangers

Are cold as snowdrops,

Downcast, folded,

And seldom visited.

And stranger's acts

Cry but vaguely, drift

Across our attention's

Smoke-sieged afternoons.

And to live there, among strangers,

Calls for teashop behaviours:

Setting down the cup,

Leaving the right tip,

Keeping the soul unjostled,

The pocket unpicked,

The fancies lurid,

And the treasure buried.