Odd things, like my duffel bag, where could it be
when I need to pack it? Strange things like words
I’m sure I know, assured I love, gone.
You are gone, and I don’t even remember your name,
although faces are never gone. Although never is a word
to never use.
And my response is peculiar too. Or Zen perhaps, I know
these things I seek are not vanished, just mislaid, not here,
not there, not where I will ever meet them again. In flesh.
Matter/energy and all that. There is a finite beyond
which I never question and there is that word
never again, because I cannot find a better one.
In my limited, limited, lost brain’s ability
to withstand all the things that are here, I am pleased
to announce that things go missing.