Dear solitude, rarest of all

Dear solitude, rarest of all
modern conditions, in your true
state you do not ask what it is
that’s brought the seeker
to your door. There is no
requirement to bring so heavy
a raft of troubles, to list
all the tears one has shed week
after week for the innocent
and the dead. And yet, that
being what it is, I wonder
where in your depths is that cell
where the pulsing blue lights
of squad cars cannot follow,
where the dark flares bursting
from the mouths of rifles turn sterile,
then dissipate in the open air…
I want to hide in that silence where
the heart’s furious hammering
returns to the breath only
as a reassurance of stars, rest
from the onslaughts of those armies
whose footfalls I hear marching
through the streets day after day.