With a broken-down oven, in a hotel kitchen, on an uninhabited island
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All the earth rolls toward emptiness.
And at nightfall the lonely streets
Fill with ice and cars. Loneliness fills the chest,
As if one walked by the North Sea.
I am here, somewhere near the edge of life —
A warm room, lamps, some forms I love —
To nudge a poem along toward its beauty.
Is that selfishness? Is it something silly?
Do others love poems as I do? Longing
To find you in a phrase, and be close
There, kissing the walls and the door frame.
Happy in the change of a single word.