Fanny Howe calls loneliness 

a vow never made but kept. Yes. 

That makes sense to me, a postulant

without a post. Guardian angels,

sovereign ghosts, music, gin & tonics

keep me company. For sonic bliss

I turn to G. M. Hopkins. The octo

genarians on my block are talkative.

I talk back. I’d like to read to them,

but what? Hopkins? Fanny Howe?

No. My own grandmother preferred

puzzles. One was a fresco—devilish thing.

We never got to finish. (Oh). 

Offer each other a sign is far better, I think,

than take this bread; you get to touch

your neighbors at least. Still, I always

take the bread. Does it mean something,

the dream in which I ate the puzzle piece?