'The world is myself; life is myself'. - Wallace Stevens
The gray has delivered a calm emptiness,
over subdued thinkers and lonely movers,
who look through windows and the windowless.
It is like old men relinquishing ornery youth,
relinquishing the spirit of the hipster years,
and within this approaching, full downpour,
nothing is as fresh as hibernation
in the warmth of things or in summer's arms,
where the heat can be like a bold lover,
till it pulls back and cools again,
vastly different from days of detachment.
The house is the house of meditation, the walls
are bookends of plaster. Enclosed is enclosed;
if not a victim of morose paint,
then one can be victimized by the staid hue itself.
Life's never so insular as on a day of rain:
wet as leaves, wet as steeples, wet as farms, wet as the earth
that desires dryness; life is never as drenched
as its reception, or its beginning, regardless
of the scattered cities it thrives in.
There is more to privacy than the silent walls.
Sitting alone, is thinking of the meaning of alone