Not what is lost,
I say. Loss strikes daily.
Not what can't
make our lives all that
lives used to be
because we have it
no longer—delivered milk, nuclear
families, an earth inhabitable
seven generations hence.
Teach me without nostalgia
the importance of the object.

* * *

Just now, with a red broom,
I swept a broken necklace—
it was new,
and fashionable—
into the matching dustpan.
The baubles lie there, glittering.
I sit by the pond where yesterday
I noticed, just after I pulled
out the dead pickerel weed,
the clutch of clinging frog eggs.

 

 

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