Loneliness

Nothing by or for itself, the sound of

eggs hard-boiling in the hot water

echoed by the heavy rain that pours

down the broken spout, the cowardly lion’s

roar answered by the moos of the buffalo

the bloody mouth of the one

by the sharp and polished horns of the other,

even Nelson Eddy

could hear someone else singing in his bathtub

the songs from his dumb movies

though when I once drove up the vertical highway

in Colorado to visit Elaine the Gnostic

and take her to the stone mountain

where her husband fell

we drove back without talking

though she touched my knee in gratitude and when

we reached the very top there were no trees

only flowers grew there

accompanied by nothing

the name of which was loneliness

which Shelley the poet himself suffered from

among his beleaguered women

you’ll die remembering.