I sit alone

In a house all my own

A solo egg

Blank and serene

In this empty carton of rooms

          It isn’t what I expected

          My solitude

          I imagined a listless damsel

          With ill rent eyes

          But it is not that

It is (of all things that can be half named)

A full quiet

A waked body of nightwater

Content and still, yet ready

For the bluegill ripple and the sunfish dash

That signal

A happening from below

         My longheady quiet

         Is the practice of magic weaving

         I daily twine gilt threads

         Through common patterns:

         Bed making, plate scrubbing, teeth brushing

I am near content

With these holy rituals

Except for the times

(Like the evening meal)

When I realize

I haven’t anyone

To confirm my theory that

Golden summer squash rounds

Are very like

Small slices of the sun