Not a wonder that my reading stumbles and sees “loss” for “less” in these lines from Suzanne Buffam’s Past Imperfect from the sequence entitled “Inklings”: “to retrieve it you’d think / we’d be gifted with less.”
Earlier we encountered this in “Sire Gromore Somyr Joure” which builds upon delicate repetition that becomes slowly attenuated.
Knees were for kneeling. Lashes were for looking
at the sun. The river was slow and it hurried.
And later the notion of loss bites again in the conclusion of a poem called “What is Called Déjà Vu”
like a dream inside which a crouched
animal is awaiting
Its little teeth glisten.
Same familiar facility with repetitions and alliterations and the zest of the zinger.
And so for day 1844