Don’t we miss a missing thing? Keen, lack
–a sparrow pecking salt into one’s wary eye. 

 
Once, I missed a man. I’ve missed my ability
to move the morrow of my body just so.

Missed the yesterday, and mourned the living 
and the dead, their names a canticle I reckon. 

I have grown tired of sewing my fingers tired
(my big body shrugs into its winding shroud).

I’ve missed so many versions of myself 

I’ve lost count now–so many Shauns. 
They stand around me in my sleep 
and I try to catch a glimpse of them.