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I walk the streets alone these days,
teeth chattering and
lids quivering
(the colors around me often
so bright and strong as to
give me chills, and startle my sight).

Muscles ache and bunions complain,
but these feet know better than to
loiter.

(Oh, I cannot wait for the good haven.)

I stride forward broadly,
brave and bowlegged.
My ear is accustomed to
inclining slightly
(even through this constant motion):
it is listening for the right
murmur-song.

- or perhaps, perhaps
it is my head waiting ever for the pillow
or shoulder
which will whisper,

yes.
It is safe now, finally,
to fall.

I walk, warm and fluttering,
I, who am always longing for

the sighing closed of sleep,

and the trembling open of love.