Think of departure as a kind of death:
a stone draws out of water, and if
the empty space stayed, as in
a photograph we see it still
captured by the fast lens that
freezes drops of water
as we could never see them
beautiful, arching, glorious.
But the hole that was a rock
remains,
wonder/miracle/phenomenon
unnatural.
I look at the abandoned toy,
the desultory pencil,
the place you sat
but I can regard only
the play of light on dust motes
the bass thrumming of passing traffic
the softness of upholstery
as we could never see them
beautiful, arching, glorious.
