The Thing Alone

Unhappiness ignores the weather:
feathers its damp nest obliviously
with its privately precipitated sins –
extrapolates itself from its own
idiosyncratic mist: begins – persists –

attenuated, weak – meekly quickens
at the elegiac – and intones an ode
to all its stolen, all its borrowed
sorrows – gives felt vacancy a push
of pain – a reason to remain, exist –

as if abysses had a wish with which
it knew it needed to align. Perhaps,
sometimes, that’s fine. The void –
the silence – hear the music in
a moan. Better than the thing alone.


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