W. Doug Bolden

One becomes plagued--yellow in the lung, Pale in the face, Coughing out unspoken fears Like tearing vellum-- By the impossibility of infinite distinctions. The great cities before us, The miles and acres and streams. The pouring and the contemplation. The interstate overpasses, The faces seen through glass storefronts, The used books with their hint of Someone else's smoke, a drop of marmalade, And a crease marking a page as beloved. Sometimes we are meant to love. Somehow we are meant to lose this. Some things slip our hands, our minds, To lie upon the more than all the sands In the strings of the sky. Headlights mark the distance, gone Back to the midnight And somewhere, out there, a phone conversation Turns dirty and mean. A discarded cup, cardboard and wax, A grave for a passing thing. Forgotten and dead. Living all the same. The great big circus tent With its six billion rings. Most unwatched by most, Down through eternity. Sometimes we truly love one another Somehow we truly hate Or laugh, wastefully, at clouds making Dreamshapes Floating by on the strings of the starry sky.