Liturgy for a Particular Kind of Loneliness

December 22, 2018

The way rays on our skin warm or change

or burn us. The way a widower feels

about his house, that he wouldn’t mind

to see it glow a little, wouldn’t mind

a female ghost in a daguerreotype

to set his life on a bike and send it

down a gravel road toward the forsythia

and all that scent. Except, danger

is of no interest anymore, nor anything

to do with a woman,

unless he prays to her. Wounds

will do this—take scent and throw

snow over it. Except, aren’t we all stigmatics

wounded past the point of grieving?

 

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