A poem

When I connect the dots
of each poem I have written,
I see a plan in my life,
a development, an ideal,
even though each specific seems
like a small island lost
in an immensity of dots;
but everything I do turns into
pinpricks for some response,
pushing on, pulling back,
or altering direction;
even isolation
unites with its container;
so I look at the stray, the odd,
the seemingly impossible,
as new pictures are imagined
to swallow loneliness.

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