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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.