This is a discourse about lost things,
spent days in small rooms,
the pull and peel of queues and paper numbers—
perforated wings between our fingers.
Our eyes study the floor, the small child
who mistakes our chair for her own
and smiles in surprise at our strange faces
the nurse’s desk gossip ranges and reaches.
I have read that those lost in snow and the moon’s zinc-light
are found fallen from their own tight-tramped circles.
They are found missing clothes,
overheated in the lost,
always closer than they knew to the horizon
we all believe stands still.
On the television screen toll-free numbers scroll.
A woman pleads with us to sell our gold.
If we did it now? All you in dim hues of healing,
chirring your thoughts,
checking your number,
your monotony in the wait-for-news.
Fill this envelope with gold.
Bent lobster hooks,
a ring that saved the finger from the blade.
It’s just that easy. Clasp hands. Stay on the path.