Photo by Nicolas Picard on Unsplash

The winter nights are bone deep

lonely. Rescue me

from their grief-

filled lonely,

their tear-jerk lonely,

their hours of silence I’d

rather not


kind of lonely — their

loneliness of the heart

that remembers

being unseen, remembers

boundaries crossed, remembers

babies lost, remembers

families distant

and friends


A loneliness for God; a loneliness



A depression of rage

and doused desire —

a loneliness for health.

A loneliness for the woods

and for being

alone in them,

for that moment

of knowing

that squirrels

and rocks

and trees

are friends.

A loneliness for ancestors and for

forgotten names, a loneliness

for altered states.

A loneliness

for revolution.

A loneliness for gardeners,

for sourdough starters,

and for knitting a story by the light of the fire.

A loneliness for children and for

A Wrinkle in Time,

for that wrinkle before

these dark, thin rhymes, saturated

with artificial light.

These soulless times, these

confused times, these

times of collective lonely

that we cannot see

without a cry of


These deserted times

which drive

us to war,

to kill

for the thrill

of horrendous intimacy.

A loneliness surrounded

by personal castles, filled

with all of the toys,

and all of the noise,

and all the possession

and nothing of love.

Our loneliness is the death of us.

The blanket unravels, back

to the string, the one

lonely thing

with which we can weave

a new story.

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