Don’t talk to me, unless on that graph
You are right up there with the truly mad,
About our splendid separate armour.
Tell me instead how fragile is what,
Clumsily and well-meant, was pieced
Together to be you and me.
Tell me, and let me echo it, of an
Emergency leaf-birth, high up,
Protected by tribal love.
Tell me how easily you, like me,
Can be picked open like thistledown
That sought nothing but a home.
Tell, ask, of imprenetrable steel we
Might have wanted. Say your face,
Say what you see of mine.
ANNETTE J DUNLEA 
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