I spend these days walking
down the slope of an ice

rimmed hill. My hardcover
library books are overdue.

I want to mingle in a throb
of strangers again. No, I

recede, always, into self
importance, in static butter

flies, that near silent energy
buzzing from TV. Whatever

enters a room must be
semantics, a language for

longing I pry with my fingers.
Winter’s the season. Remnants

of lovers. Ice in morning light
refracting through isolated

windows. Not even my street
knows my name.

(originally published in Erothanatos, Summer 2021)