I have a shirt made of paper—I wear it to the Lebanese wedding
I do not know the bride or groom—I take refuge in 
A paper existence, within
My body—weak—I roll 
My body up my arms  
Paper starving the distribution

  
The bride is in the last loving house
Her home is about to close—the day, the dance
Away to another 
House that is not her 
Home—is why
She will always insist on entertaining—feeding
Whoever arrives into the light, borrowing herself back—she presses 
Her face into fog 
At the window, circulating 
The pressure of another—late atmosphere 
Growing elderly, maintaining a vigil 
For the burnishing paper doll
Breathing wishful captivation at the window. She strips
Strangers to the full
She lives on the arm of the dead—she leaps!