LOST THINGS By Mary Swann It sometimes happens when looking for Lost objects, a book, a picture or A coin or spoon, That something falls across the mind— Not quite a shadow but what a shadow would be In a place that lacked light. As though the lost things have withdrawn Into themselves, books returned To paper or wood or thought, Coins and spoons to simple ores, Lustreless and without history, Waiting out of sight And becoming part of a larger loss Without a name Or definition or form Not unlike what touches us In moments of shame.
