What Goes Missing

You must think in terms
of loss to connect the dots
to any living thing. To the spaces
they were, their moving through
something, a faded bloom. If you calculate time
you must allow for parts to be sheered off
in the debacle of days. Careening
into the slow slop of morning in your underwear.
Indentations from sheets on your soft skin.
There's a membrane around you that's made to last
until something ruinous comes along or something hidden
in the flesh springs forth. The universe
is just too abstract, the mere volume of it
is too enormous to collapse with us in it, right?
I hope so. I guess I'll just look at this:
a minute passing and a catalogue of a room
observed in the quiet of now.