We look everywhere, disconcerted,
Finally we stop and search our minds,
We trace back our steps into our steps
But the thing eludes us, like an essence,
And its lostness surrounds us like night.
To be found, it must acquiesce to light,
To accident, proximity, to perfect recall.
A St. Anthony need come round
When something lost must be found
In its place outside of time and space.
To be found requires a state of grace,
The thing must guide us back
To the lost kingdom in plain sight.
The ground of being must be misplaced
For us to save happiness from ourselves.