Look at us, walking around in the world with only skin to cover up the muscles attached to tendon attached to bone that we’re all made of, invisible blood flowing through all of us all the time. Don’t our bodies seem so insubstantial for all the experiences we go through, all the conversations we have, all the music and tears and talk and laughter that pours out of us? So much of what makes up the heart of us is invisible. People from my past, for good and for not, flitted through my mind when I read this poem.

The visible and the in-
     – Marge Piercy

Some people move through your life
like the perfume of peonies, heavy
and sensual and lingering.
Some people move through your life
like the sweet musky scent of cosmos
so delicate if you sniff twice, it’s gone.
Some people occupy your life
like moving men who cart off
couches, pianos and break dishes.
Some people touch you so lightly you
are not sure it happened. Others leave
you flat with footprints on your chest.
Some are like those fall warblers
you can’t tell from each other even
though you search Petersen’s.
Some come down hard on you like
a striking falcon and the scars remain
and you are forever wary of the sky.
We all are waiting rooms at bus
stations where hundreds have passed
through unnoticed and others
have almost burned us down
and others have left us clean and new
and others have just moved in.

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