In Absence — This Unknowing

When you leave, faceless

old lover, element

that I have tried for so long

to explain—I will be

suspended between

two large stones

for a moment

thinking you were good

before I am revived.

I will be laundry

that has gotten loose

from the line. Pantyhose

flying into traffic.

So long, handsome.

When you go, I will be

the moth, the butterfly,

turned to broth in the cocoon.

Reassembled, I will climb out

and you will be subsumed

into a majesty of vapor

gone as an orchid.

I plan it, little switchblade.

I will it, strand of sweet spittle,

endearing idiot I made

out of mud and loss—

you, whose shelf life is zero,

you, who keep me from totality

and the small sum of what

is otherwise infinite.