father said that while we sleep
we live another life
somewhere else--perhaps
another girl with my features
on the other side of the world
is living my life too

he also said that when we make choices
the un-lived strands of our lives
trail behind us,  splitting again and again
becoming tangled, and when we want to,
we can will ourselves into those strands
and experience the life
we could have chosen

i can feel the strands of our lives
touching, yet separate
stirring and settling into each other
on the empty sidewalks.  your face
and mine shimmer on the hazy skin
of the pond, shivering as swans
swim through our reflection.

we are always there. we have danced
inside the edges of a salt circle
whose magic safety was only
an illusion.  we dance around each other
with a shy grace as if our hearts
put together are a map of buried treasure
retaining flecks of light
from another life we could have chosen

this is the architecture
of loneliness:
beside a river full of black boulders,
a window
in which there are scenes
of families
while a little match-girl
stands outside
in eternally
falling
snow

this is the architecture
of loneliness:
a kitchen
where a woman
stands at the stove
staring into space
not noticing
that the water
has all boiled away

white sand accumulating
in the bottom
of an hourglass

all sounds coming from the outside
yellow specks of dust floating
in the empty rooms
of the heart

love spoken
only from memory
in a voice raspy from lack of use

a dead wasp on the windowsill

this is the architecture
of loneliness:
the point of transparency
where ice melts
or a cotton fiber
unravels the S twist of its existence
or an autumn leaf begins to redden
or on the horizon
below a cloud
lines of rain
(like you)
vanish in air