all the lonely people

Could draw you an atlas of
people at their

counties and seascapes tilted
the wrong way on
each axis

yet the
pragmatist in me

a lonely second to
let you
acclimate to

disembodied dread,

accumulated horsemen
looking for
their heads in

a sleepy village
no one ever warms to the thought
of sun.

Twenty years later
and the ghosts have
not dispersed

nor won;

they’ve only grown
barns at best to haunt;

beards and paunch,
the smell of salt.

Don’t fault me those
first instincts
because I’ve only tried to think of you

help you make it
to the dawn.

Life’s too long to spend talking
to yourself
but don’t
shortsell your haunts
because once they are lost
any lock and
step with
inner peace
loses feeling in its legs
and you walk the line

like all the lonely people I’ve
spontaneously become.


7 thoughts on “all the lonely people

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