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.



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