It is the obvious thing we find
may never be understood,
a phantom limb that begs to bear weight
The last place we look
is where we find it. Only
a fool would keep looking, then.
A bed showing the shape of sleeper
is unmade, sloppy. The pea under the mattress is a thing
you would have to be stupid to believe.
Maybe, then, it’s true. Maybe the fault lies
in me, limbless and pressed down into the sheets,
maybe this is the thing I will not ever see.