Because I am more lost than found,
find me. Call out. Do not whisper.
Mourn for the child I was,
the pliant misappropriation.
Better pathos be put to use,
and salt tears wet the grout
that binds the ring round China,
than for there to be no difference
between being lost and being found.
Hearts are absurd containers,
pulsings more sorrowful than glad
in love with the moving blood,
and strangely fulfilled in loss.
Call out to me, but find me.
Are you a hatter and mad
in the noonday sun? Forever lost?
Better tears for the outlandish
than tolerance for abstracted people
who do not cradle lilies in their arms.
Call me from the outer dark before
the birds have eaten all the crumbs.
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