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Lost and Found

There is a universe of lost
things, car keys, wallets
monthly blood, a child picked
too soon, like an eager crocus.
They pass from our houses
fold into themselves burn away
like blood.  They vanish, but remain
in us as the flat slap of bare
feet, the heat of summer skin
the jingle of keys. They are myths
that hum in our bones.
Always with us, shifting
toward the sun, the lost things
move to a strangers hand.