The Way It Is
More real than ever, as I move
in the world, and never out of it,
Solitude.
Typewriter, telephone, ugly names
of things we use, I use. Among them, though,
float milkweed silks.
Like a mollusk’s, my hermitage
is built of my own cells.
Burned faces, stretched horribly,
eyes and mouths forever open,
weight the papers down on my desk.
No days for years I have not thought of them.
And more true than ever the familiar image
placing love on a border
where, solitary, it paces, exchanging
across the line a deep attentive gaze
with another solitude pacing there.
Yet almost no day, too, with no
happiness, no
exaltation of larks uprising from the heart’s
peat-bog darkness.
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