When it’s not there, everything’s normal. Days
prowl or scamper, swim howl or play dead
with an animal’s pure regard for surfaces,
no sense of absence, nothing underlying.
A cut thumb merely bleeds and stings
and a squirrel’s pushpinned eye is a curious thing.
Then it comes, or I do, into the world where
there is no being without it. A doubling
murmur in the heart’s chamber
twins all things with their sordid nature.
It rips you right in two. Careful, friend,
which one of me it is you’re comforting.