I am mislaid, lost luggage
in a warehouse of brown bags,
or one last case forever circulating
on the baggage reclaim belt.
I rummage through old photographs
scanning for my face I knew,
I search among the ashes of the fire
rooting like a boar for truffles;
but only find what I have lost
when I prepare to lose it once again in you.
If you've any comment on this poem, Maggie Butt would be pleased to hear from you.