I have problems being lonely
while snug within—
a nimbus in a weave of cotton clouds.
you know I brood, you know I heave, and pour—
I love to stand me still alone and wither,
drizzling through the sky.
and when, hugged around with dropsy,
comes a weak, delinquent cry—
that I, in being I, can see
nothing but a thousand
chutes of rain.