My chin is a microphone–
I tap it twice
and the room quiets.

Look at our Universe;
so connected like this.
And I, a part, a breathing form
beneath the branch.

How did lonely
become something bad?
Lonely, lovely, gently—
I am here
Who I am, I am.

Do you wish to hear poetry
unknit from the bones?
Learn to let lonely
be something useful,
be what it is.

Take your hands from your pockets,
for the world is too slippery
to not stretch out
all the ductile momentum.


The reader brings his or her own experience to the poem and creates meaning. Here is my mine:


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