All poems are about loss

the soft ear of dog

who lays her head on your pillow,

the better to hear your breath,

then slips soundlessly away

without waking you,

vibrations which enter

through the soles of your feet,

the way unseen tectonic plates

meet and part

in their search

for the same equilibrium

you yearn for,

the stillness

in the eye of the storm

before cyclonic anger looses itself

in a fury of discontent,

the transition

from before to after

which reminds you

there is no going back,

not even for your favourite blue sweater

which is so intimate

with the hollows of your body,

which comforts you like a second skin,

the absence of tonsils,

taken during your first dive

into oblivion,

the appendix you were told

had become anachronism,

lost,

all practice runs for the final act

of letting go.