Bells do not ring when our names are called, we are the no people who were once the yes people, we are China in the back closet, wash left in the rain with the wind moving our sex. Our words are awkward between forks and knives, between shadows on the dinner plates, we're stones fluttering in your intimate eyes. Yet you've given us a place at your table, it's a tight place between crowded chairs, naked we do not know if you have us here to keep yourselves separate.