detachment three.

i know nobody knows the things you know,
yet i don’t know them, either

connection, that most mysterious of all

missed connections, that most common of all

born to someone whose connection with us
burns with the intensity of stellar cores

how do we ever find that energy again?
or did we never really have it?

now, in the dried-out half of life, i find
the world scorns anyone who is not moist;
as the only thing i might have that would invite connection
is on my dresser, made of plastic:
and written on calendars, in
another room of this house,
are words i can’t recapture, since
the author is no longer here

i would share my grief if i could;
i would try to connect

but flitting through my mind are only
hexagonal shapes

if you made it to this line

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