Yesterday the loss was a pin
pricking from some unfound place.

Today it is a scattering of sinkholes
in sidewalks, near the kitchen sink

under unturned pages of books.
The shingles are grieving,

as is the blue jay, the lamp.
All the ice machines and bowling alleys

sent flowers, and seventeen telephone poles
worked out a casserole schedule.

No one needs to explain
the anatomy of loss.

It is a consuming tunnel,
a puddle that creeps.

In this neighborhood,
only one car can fit down the street

at a time. Some pull over
while others pass through.