Misdirection
You have to know where to look:
in the shadows cast by candlelight,
in the formalities of childhood games,
in the inner design of ripe tomatoes.
It's not out in the open like some
sudden loss, not a casket or highway
collision, never in the moment it hits.
It's where you can't think to look.
Three feet to the left of the locked
door. Not the food eaten, the food
left on the plate. Not inside the hat,
but held in the hand behind the back.
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