Someone said to me recently
‘Do you feel alone?’
I remembered something
Rilke wrote about being alone,
yet not alone enough.
I told them that parts of my life
had sloped off into the night.
Never to be seen again.
And sometimes I feel
alone in the moonlight.
But only sometimes.
Thinking of the man who
left that March Day.
I still read Rilke, and Bukowski
and of course, Dickinson.
And around my lonely life
a woman, with a soul
who means to comfort.
How could I feel alone?