He’s missing
before we get
our words out he’s gone
absent nowhere to
be seen
even present was invisible a
scent a waft
wandering through the rooms
a vibration in the turn of a
door handle
or the fall of a hammer
least expected
mutely we look around
ask approval most of all
advice
knowing this won’t translate
his is a new language
the old useless
where he’s gone
we find ourselves in a world
held together
fastened glued patterns arrangements
clever ingenious
his second
tongue
he understood how the spring
coiled itself under pressure
its mouth biting on the
small burr
fingers and thumb of one
hand
holding it all together
a jack-in-the-box squeezed
into that studied moment
perhaps he will rise again
when we light the stove
twist its automatic ignition
maybe return on the
imperceptible desert breeze
when we open the windows on
the edge of night
slide them in their grooves
glass walls on the move
hear them click
satisfied complete
releasing us from the box
letting us breathe at last
in this new language
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