The following is a short excerpt from a much longer, and excellent poem by Sandra Agricola, entitled, "Nocturnes: The Gift of Suicide":
Indirect objects -- all of us -- of someone else's
It would be pointless and tiresome to go into my personality,
my childhood, my body language. Sometimes things transpire for
no particular reason. Dams burst and engineers stand around
scratching the seats of their courduroy britches. People fall
in love with victims everyday for no apparent reason. Falling
away from someone can be understood in the same way.
"Indirect objects--all of us." Aye, and there's the rub.