All the earth rolls toward emptiness. And at nightfall the lonely streets Fill with ice and cars. Loneliness fills the chest, As if one walked by the North Sea. I am here, somewhere near the edge of life — A warm room, lamps, some forms I love — To nudge a poem along toward its beauty. Is that selfishness? Is it something silly? Do others love poems as I do? Longing To find you in a phrase, and be close There, kissing the walls and the door frame. Happy in the change of a single word.