it might really start
to bother you
how one damn thing,
insufferably, converges
on another—
how every faultless cloud
drifting silent
on the horizon
inevitably crashes into
and then merges
with a partner,
or how predictably
the pale somber mood
of the evening
comes bleeding
like a bruise into
carefree afternoon.
There are those of us
who feel choked
when there's so little room
for doubt; those of us
who were born
to be lonely
find the constant, inevitable
union
of what's separate
to be less
a small infusion of closeness
and of hope
and more
of a slow
drip of poison.
