The lost can stay lost down here,
in laurel slicks, false-pathed caves.
Too much too soon disappears.
On creek banks clearings appear,
once homesteads. Nothing remains.
The lost can stay lost down here,
like Tom Clark’s child, our worst fears
confirmed as we searched in vain.
Too much too soon disappears.
How often this is made clear
where cliff-shadows pall our days.
The lost can stay lost down here,
stones scattered like a river
in drought, now twice-buried graves.
Too much too soon disappears,
lives slip away like water.
We fill our Bibles with names.
The lost can stay lost down here.
Too much too soon disappears.
