I miss everything that passes

even before it has passed: the dish
so beautiful in its glazed countenance
before the knife cleaves into its center
and portions out what each was supposed

to have; the nectar before it disappears
from the hummingbird feeder and the slight
swing from the motion of shy wings
I almost never get to see; drip of water

down the eaves, film of green fallen
on the surface of the lake; newspapers, jacket
sleeves, shoes, scarves, random parts of lives
scattered below the transom after the blast.


In response to Via Negativa: Missing.

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