There’s an absence that appals:
closed doors, night sweats, white walls.
Is it the thing we first forget
which will eventually beget
this cringeing in the night
this too-familiar fright?
Or is it just the neurons as they play,
at hide and seek, all night, all day,
which make us stare forever
at that place that’s out of reach,
alone, bereft of speech?
Or is the child within us still crying
in the dark
reaching out and missing
his mother’s lonely heart?

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