LONELINESS

The manner of his coming in
Like someone who will stay,
An uncle or eccentric,
Keeps one’s friends away.

Up of nights, he is a shadow
In the day. He watches empty things
And listens to the way
They idly clink, while sipping
At his colorless drinks.

Round the house, he sometimes sings
A few bars, in a hoarse groan: “I will arise…”
But never does. His face like ash is gray. True:
He makes no fuss.

And he disintegrates into the slow passage of hours,
And he melts under the sun, and in solitude becomes
Aloof. Finally he thins like hair and drifts off like a cloud

-- He passes like a dream, dissolves like a steam --

And settles in the thickness of the air
Where, like the weather, he waits.