It seems she’s gotten lost

looking for you and now
it appears that she wanders
long alleys

of math book equations
or the yellowing pages
of dime store romances
or the dog-eared corners
of poetry books; those books

that are read again and
again, when suddenly
love turns a corner
like a new astonishment.

It’s at times like this
that the poets are dusted
off and dragged out
from there dark mornings
into the midday sun,

squinting. Oh the eager
finger tips searching to find
a certain page,
a certain poem by
a certain poet,
who always moves
the reader.

And when found,
don’t be startled by her
tiny footprints, meandering
across the poem or by all
the graffiti scrawled
in the margins; trying
to get your attention.

It’s just her lost again
in the love letters you
once wrote to her
so long ago, when

the mail was
a talisman
warding off all



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