On the heights of loneliness | where the body | meets the sky | The snow | makes a home | for your footsteps | The words | don’t reach | The stars | acute in their | brightness | spill | vagabondage, all night | not one of them | has an address | It is | very quiet | The edge | even of your own | thoughts | is very | close

What, are you still | here? The others | left long ago | They crowd | the rail | A voice | calls the lonely | to it, and they gather, each with their | mountain | and their | room | Who is that | singing? they pretend | to wonder | although they know | the voice is | sadly | familiar | and that island | all | too | reminiscent | of home

 


from the series fleeting pixel (series of 1,000 poems, 2012–2016)
(this poem, August 2012)

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