Somewhere off the Maine coast
may there be a lighthouse for me
to live in -- for two years,
maybe three.
There I will write letters and the sea
will rush in and crash halfway
up the red and white spiral-striped
masonry.
The skies above will pall and darken
and when I've finished my essay
on the beauty of solitude someone will
come. Or three
To carry me off in a shower
of sparks to otherworlds
and elsewhens. I will see stars then
when I from Diana flee.
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