There is no such Disgrace.
I do not live inside or choose to
put my dwelling things
away there.
There is Here to one else,
while I cannot touch it with a tip
of glance-on accident
these matters made solid.
Their way does not cross
my own,
or break through my gait.
Thier way becomes unknown
with wind and soft feet.
There is gasping, a vacuous horror
at the senseless flexing to hold nothing,
constricting itself, There,
the worst that would be too atrophied
to rest here.
I do not dwell in Misery.
I do not consider
my self
part of
Disgrace.
Painting by Pierre-Auguste Renoir, (1870) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
