A Solitude You Tell Yourself

The world, with its assorted
Gravel, waits outside the door
That’s inside your head, inside

That looks differently in ways
That give you the bright idea
There is both inside and out.

Everyone’s an anchorite
And not by choice. The doorway
Is the cell. You spend your life

In your doorway. Swing it wide,
And the world with its gravel
Appears outside. Shut it tight,

And all you can think about
Is what’s in here that was out.