Poem for May 14

Lost Explorers
It is worst of all
when we don’t know
When nothing is left
but an old hat, a tin of fish,
a paddle, compass
or some twine.
No tracks, no bones
nothing human for the stars
to shine down on
or to receive our tears.
Only dread imaginings
of their last breaths,
or the hope
that haunts our dreamings
where they live, where we
see them hiking back, carefree
and full of songs
learned in the place
to which they will lead us
the place to which
we will never want to go.
–first published in Animus

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