When you wake in the night,
you hear a high-pitched whine
that, in some places in the world,
is called the singing of the stars.
Other places, it's called loneliness.
And yet, in others, it's mortality.

I wake, and I luxuriate
in the perfect fit of my aloneness.
Yes, to have my skin on is a luxury.
In spirit, I have whitewashed the ancient
timber walls of my selfhood.
I have painted fresh medallions of
makebelieve flowers on the membranous panels.
The winter rains, the churlish equinoctial winds,
once deflowered them. No more.

The walls of my home are decorated and impenetrable.
I have canted a curse.
I have made my celibate skin into a celebration.
No one need admire the clever handiwork,
the pleasing symmetry.
No uxoriousness is demanded,
merely,
this unctuous containment.
This healing liniment that fingertips
the lineaments of my salvation. This salve.

I live in a cleft not reached by roads.
There is barely any mail.
My beautiful, whitewashed wholeness is my home.