Anna

Anna, I find you,
too often, too close,
spilling into my solidarity
on evenings alone
when nothing is wanted,
when thoughts are sweet indulgences,
and silence gives me pause,
to feel romantic regrets.  
Anna, you rush at me
In a hurry of slicing memories
I cannot soften with self-deception.
Anna, you broke
the reliable pattern of people.  
How disquieting: the not-knowing.
How do I resolve you?
I know myself:
the sum of misshapen parts.
Only you, my Anna,
my never-companion,
sit beside me still.  
When I study the lines of sky
And consider the shifting clouds
You rattle the calm of my closing.