Grass, 1967

When I open  the  door,  I smile  and wave to people who  only
have  eyes  and  who  are  infinitely joyful.  I  see  my  children,
but  only the backs  of their  heads.  When  they turn around,  I
don’t recognize  them.  They  once had mouths  but  now  only
have  eyes.  I  want  to leave  the  room  but   when  I do, I  am
outside,  and everyone  else  is inside. So next time, I open the
door  and  stay  inside.  But  then  everyone is  outside.  Agnes
said that  solitude  and  freedom  are  the same.  My solitude is
like the  grass.  I  become  so  aware of its presence  that it too
begins to feel like an audience.  Sometimes  my solitude grabs
my  phone  and  takes a  selfie,  posts  it somewhere for others
to   see   and    like.    Sometimes   people   comment  on   how
beautiful  my  solitude is  and  sometimes  my  solitude  replies
with  a  heart.  It  begins  to   follow  the  accounts  of  solitudes
that  are half its age.  What if my solitude is  depressed?  What
if even my solitude doesn’t want to be alone?