Don't listen to me; my heart's been broken. I don't see anything objectively. I know myself; I've learned to hear like a psychiatrist. When I speak passionately, That's when I'm least to be trusted. It's very sad, really: all my life I've been praised For my intelligence, my powers of language, of insight- In the end they're wasted- I never see myself. Standing on the front steps. Holding my sisters hand. That's why I can't account For the bruises on her arm where the sleeve ends . . . In my own mind, I'm invisible: that's why I'm dangerous. People like me, who seem selfless. We're the cripples, the liars: We're the ones who should be factored out In the interest of truth. When I'm quiet, that's when the truth emerges. A clear sky, the clouds like white fibers. Underneath, a little gray house. The azaleas Red and bright pink. If you want the truth, you have to close yourself To the older sister, block her out: When I living thing is hurt like that In its deepest workings, All function is altered. That's why I'm not to be trusted. Because a wound to the heart Is also a wound to the mind.