Loneliness

Because I find it hard
to let go

of the old, burned-out avenues
I have already extinguished–

where these stitches seem to crawl
and the dumb thermometer

hangs from your mouth
for all the rage inside you.

It’s not so bad–
the poem emerges:

here, alive, my Love
like a dirty, wingless knuckle

out of an egg–
covered with footsteps.

It is all that is
inside you.