Letting Go

People got lost.
Some unearthed.
Some asunder.
Some to children.
Some to worth.
Some to ideas in things.
Some to motion.
Some to treaties.
Some to letters.
Some to rivals.
Some to ruinous livers.
I got lost.

Some got found.
Some get found out by the Copacabana.
Some blunder.
I got found down.

I did the finding.
I rumbled forward.
I scurried deep (black under), slurring:
“You. You summoned up pyres,
antipsychotics, half-mocked idylls,
you summoned up balefulness,
refried oil, you summoned up surds,
you summoned up lenders, I conjured
up malaise.” I substantiate nothing.

But this morning isn’t having it.
So awful and mixed, your mother —
prevaricating the sort, aborting mass;
knotted ribbon in English.