I am so lonely that I wish I was blind.
I want to fall into a sea of foreign hands familiar
in their similarity, similar in their
intimacy, and all unrecognizable by me.
They will carry me along through the day
as I flick my cane of contemplation
back and forth; watch over me
who has given up the ability to tend myself,
as one, who, unsatisfied, gives up
the hors d'oeuvres to his neighbor.

There is a world going on
outside of my bedroom. There are sounds
which go unheard by my distracted ears,
unprocessed by my stunted brain:
the click of the electric kettle
finishing its cycle out in the kitchen,
the slap of two young boys' hands
after their first time shoplifting.
But I am shackled to my desk
in a staring competition with this poem,
trying to explain myself to you.

I should write about something that has nothing
to do with me: a red ant journeying past the worn
toes of a Tibetan monk, a car in Germany
colliding with a tree. That way you would
finally understand that it's not personal,
that the you that I am speaking to
is someone I created.

The air is pregnant today.
I can feel her monstrous baby, a slumbering haze,
rolling around hungry, searching the womb
for me, and crazed. I have to go now, consumed
by the smell of spring rising through my window.
Lead on by these sensations, I'm not sure
what I was saying, but if you're lonely,
I know that you'll be fine.