Loneliness is just a place.
A branch on the leafless tree
in the median,
the square of grey grass
beneath a transmission tower,
a condominium called Quest,
yet for that, half-empty—
but for those who sit
at winter morning windows
and dress for deserted dawns,
and weekly walk the avenue
past a thousand strangers,
to arrive back at the window
and find asylum
in a gloaming branch,
and the evening—
softer with a candle,
and morning far enough away
from the crumpled cereal box,
the cold milk and ceiling tiles.
Dawn, far enough away.



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