Strangers

Some are beautiful, 
but not serious, 
blessed with warmth 
but not fire.
Some stand in shadows, 
at turnstiles, 
in the switching yards 
of desire.
Some haunted,
Some homeless,
lost between wars,
plying their trade
in dark metaphors,
coupling in alleyways,
ghostly and white,
dressed in shreds torn
from the curtains of night.
Some short, unadorned, 
utile and plain,
wrapped in history, 
myth and pain. 
Some, tall as willows 
that bend or quake,
trapped in cliches 
they cannot escape. 
Some can imprison, 
and some can set free.
Some are for counting,
and some for mystery.