Solitary Sun

I’m not against my being alone.
I find quite enough company
in the strange hours of the self.

The sea fills me,
the dark trees fill me,
the lamp light on the street’s cape
fills me,
the mad, joyous cries
of a city that doesn’t know me
fill me.

And a Spanish guitar can be enough,
and the painful beauty of
unreachable girls,
in a corner of me
is an appeased dusk,
unaccompanied, satisfied.

Alone the silence is an aroma
like exotic tea,
and I feel myself porous,
drifting out to meet it.

But it’s when I have to walk
from my used up day
into the empty night
that my soul breaks into
chunks of unbearable heavy bone.

The infinite sorrow of unshared fruit.
Where is the one who will receive
the gathered sparks
of my solitary sun?

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