The Hermit Journals

Back before the echo
Was domesticated
By Edison, et al.,

If you were both lonely
And possessed of free time,
You entertained yourself

With your own instruments—
Piano, mandolin,
Harmonica, banjo—

Whatever you could play.
If desperate, you sang—
At worst, talked to yourself.

Words, being nothing but
Specimens of ourselves,
Still fluttering or pinned

To whatever surface
We can be left scratched in,
Have to echo ourselves

To pass our quiet years
On shelves or windowsills
With the corpses of flies.

It’s alright. It’s not like
Language itself can be
Lonely or bored, alive.