Ballad of Lost Objects
The homing signals they once sent out
have stopped transmitting;
and though Earth’s orbit swirls gently,
and the road banks steeply to the right,
and we encounter the disc of the sun
dropping into a sea of mist,
there’re not for finding now; they’re gone.
Most years ago, some just the other day
lost without trace or track;
each one opening another crack
in my painted shell of property –
none washed up, none brought back
to the beach of life expectancy.
Lost like props or stage tableaux,
once at my side or in my hand,
these shadows: chiaroscuros
assembled in another land,
a cloud bank where I cannot go;
a glass that chance filled up with sand.
The road banks steeply to the left;
its tar picks up a cool dampness,
and we encounter the disc of the sun
rising out of a sea of mist
as if by chemical legerdemain.
The lost objects spinning in their orbits,
no less, phantasmagorically exist.
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