We think things lost. Sometimes they’re memories
we know that there was something but a mist
stops us from knowing what it was. We list
all of the things it might be. None of these

we say and wonder. Sometimes it’s a toy
worn out or left behind or just misplaced.
We don’t know which. Our memories are erased;
the toy is gone for good. And yet, what joy

to open boxes find covered in dust
or cobwebs what was lost, and brush it clean
out in the open air. Or to have seen
the thing that triggers knowledge we can trust

to be lost memory at last come back
to fill space we did not see as a lack.


About rozkaveney

Middleaged, trans, novelist, poet, activist
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