I know,” you tell Loren, even if you can’t really tell

what is making her cry (it’s not like when at 6 a.m.

she unwraps our day, or cries for poo, hunger or rage), “I know.”

This way cosmologists postulate dark matter, energy and flow.

So much effort to understand ends up like an alka-seltzer

sizzling on the kitchen wet worktop, our mind is a poor sensor

for the shadows – that yet from time to time are issued

from measures of our language so we get a little truce.

But the obscure things, life invisible in the making,

were sometimes roused by your eyes in this past year

in that point of air that with every blink’s a rhyme

scheme involving a black pupil, light and rimmel.

You knock against a corner and Loren, who can’t talk, says “ainou” –

and if you shed a tear it will be sweet, be clear and slow,

like your silkwarmth or the white flower of the clover,

the last milk between you two and my paper now that this is over.