Poem

The Lost Thing

The truth is
it never belonged to anybody.
It's not a music box or locket;
it doesn't bear our initials.
It has none of the tragic glamour
of a lost child, won't be found
on any front page. It's like
the river that confuses
search dogs, like the promise
on the far side of the ellipsis.
Look for it in the margins,
is the conventional wisdom.
Look for it as late afternoon light
dips below the horizon.
But it's not to be seen.
Nor does it have a heart
or give off any signal.
It's as if. . . is how some of us
keep trying to reach it.
Once, long ago, I felt sure
I was in its vicinity.
-----
by Stephen Dunn, from Everything Else in the World. New York: Norton, 2006.