The Nude Truth
Each of the cabin's myriad tall windows
Is a stage on which dripping beads of rain dance —
Native steps the silvery mist choreographs on the glass,
As it envelops the silent, iced-up lake I'm witnessing,
Sitting here, in this kitchen, by myself,
Naked to my thin, wizened flesh's aging bones . . .
Just how I like it when I've gotten away, on my own,
All alone, save for my companion, lover, muse: solitude,
Who knows how to assuage my spirit's craving for her intimacy.
Perhaps the best, most gratifying aspect of her affection
Derives from her being able to let me just be,
Not needing to ask me to connect when I was here, last,
With my immediate being, in this familiar cabin,
Or even why I've chosen to expose my nude soul, again,
To such cold, wet, raw, unaccommodating remoteness.
She knows this, and this also: it has everything to do with truth,
The truth of where I am when I'm not where I'm not,
The truth of who I am when I'm not who I'm not.
03/12/12 - (1)
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