Missing

And there it is again, there,
That longing for the missing

Thing you want to read, can’t write,
Thing you want to write, can’t read.

Where is it? Where should you be
Looking for it? Your instinct

Shoves you toward the classics,
Any tradition, so long as

They’re ancient as possible,
But you doubt you’ll find it there.

What would be the shape of it?
You would want to live in it,

Get some kind of sense of home
From reading or writing it,

A well-framed lean-to of poems
For an angle on a world,

A telescoping window
Moonlighting as microscope,

As a whole philosophy,
As a way to calm you down,

As thoughts constructed in hymns,
As intimate as twin-speak,

As comforting as morphine
But clarifying at strength.

Every time you start reading
Or writing, the feeling steals

Over you eventually.
It’s not here—or if it is,

You’re the TV detective
Glaring dramatically

At the crime scene, muttering,
What is it that we’re missing?