he is not who you think he was
(the pinky wants another ring)
  the dolor of the troller who
  lives circumspect and anxious

(here there’s a thing that we saw once.
  or maybe twice. my memory’s vague)
  you read the history of the plague,
  and realize the ways they’re us,

  but sadly, rank is given to
  the loudest unrepentants,
  who chase the party where it’s not
  eschewing clause, or sentence —

  she feels the dark is closing in
(would melatonin help, he thinks?)
  now spins the wheel of random fate
(by this time, though, it’s far and late)