I am mislaid, lost luggage
in a warehouse of brown bags,

or one last case forever circulating
on the baggage reclaim belt.

I rummage through old photographs
scanning for my face I knew,

I search among the ashes of the fire
rooting like a boar for truffles;

but only find what I have lost
when I prepare to lose it once again in you.

Maggie Butt

If you've any comment on this poem, Maggie Butt would be pleased to hear from you.