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Example Poem
Solitude
You give yourself room,
susceptible to plushness, very fine hairs.
You're not wrong, not right,
benign as a window, cool, glass pane,
relishing flatness, passivity.
You sit bowl, slurp yourself,
a satiation of hunger, thirst, peace.
You might hold a teacup, fingering
the glaze of it between your blessings.
Free from the ricochet of other people,
bothersome mouth-breathing,
exactingness of places. Your spleen,
or another inexplicable organ,
happiest when left alone.
© Tori Grant Welhouse
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Chapbook poems featured in broadsides
