Fortunately, you can go out walking. 
You expect very little, only dusk
foreshadowing night, the murmur 
of animal life at the ready, & a breeze, 
its edge honed sharper than expected.
For now, solitude is desire without
fanfare. You can take stock, see things 
for what they seem without the burden
of intellect or wit. You could explain 
all this, make sense of it, if surrounded,
threatened, coaxed, enticed. Oh yes, 
an audience—close friends or passersby,
lovers, perhaps—all suitably intrigued 
enough to stick around. What could be 
better? You might tell them the night 
is yours alone & loneliness a form 
of joy that doesn’t advertise. They may 
chuckle & swear they understand. 
Yo comprendo, says one, as Spanish
is a loving tongue. Do come with us,
they urge, walking toward the bright
lights, your protests, heard as little other
than the rustle of dry leaves, of no use.