On Loss

It presses my souls
as snowfall in all winter's day

and I am now open
to sudden fall
through puzzled ravines

footing unknotted to
earth, a day's illness
for a sun's contagion

it's a gift for the common welch,
to pass through salons
where the suggestion
of presence runs through a
two-bob playbill

the force of moving along
being told to venerate
simple accidents
as so much bread for the home

when we have eaten
it will be better
but how is it that the sun
has not left my face

as a fact of erosion and
stone splints?

And when I go to
pay the dues of many
respect it's like
an army of dirigents
advise in their nasal
salutes

''here you must foreswear,
here you will forego claim and
here your honour has currency
for clams''

and the case is simply
that I am down to ones,
units that even boasting
can't make glow.

So the recognisablity
of a ghost economy
lays in wait
for an opportunity
to lay a fright
that brings me
to all my sound orders
and itineraries
identifiable by masses.