lonely

When She Wears Her Name Inside Out

/ Arambler / Leave a comment

I see her eyes
in the actor’s face. If
looks could give birth
to laughter, labor

would begin in hidden
murmurs there. The joy
is in riding
the Staten Island Ferry

come winter or late
fall. No one falls
in tonight. No swim will refresh
our thoughts. Lonely and lovely

dance on the deck
under a civil twilight sky.

You, Conduit

/ Arambler / 2 Comments

To pretend to be
an atheist and still believe
in guardian angels is 

this house
where I live with blinds
closed tight. To profess to live 

in solitude by choice
while scars of loneliness tattoo
my legs, my soul, is 

to give loners
a bad name, is to let myself
down root 

cellar stairs into a leaky chamber
where only humans go.