For all that is lost. The bottle opener. The flea-market ring. A telephone number.
A day or an hour. The battery of the afternoon sinking into evening. A name, a face.
A longing familiar, its hollows filling with a vague humming noise, like the humming of bacteria in the earth.
A matrix of loss. Like a pair of hands cupped to receive.
Like a hollow-point bullet blooming out on impact.
Like the cavity of light this room becomes each morning, and the dreaming I ascend from, into shattered night, the soft flesh of things bent into discernable objects:
A red book. A chair, with a gray jacket thrown over. A blue bowl. A white scarf.
These, a lexicography for living.