Two Good Arms

She has these two arms
made of marble mirror.
They hang like a string of glass
beads, these arms
with infinite joints, water arms,
that trail behind her chest
like ribbons on the handlebars of a child's bicycle.

She presses through the wind
as if they were thick waves,
her forehead is the bow of a ship,
It shines with a high ease.

We are the deranged homeless, treading
with our stick limbs, light thrashing from behind buildings
into our eyes, landing on her skin
in oval scapes, in pearls of warmth,
blessing her arms, blessing them.