It is with much regret,

Julia, Dorine, Lisa, that I must say I can not

find the book American Hybrid Poetry.

Looking for it was at first a simple thing, 

like checking the pool chemistry, and then

it was that last orange, its skin beginning 

to dry as it clings to a high branch, then

it became a description of an argument:
I say the snow is gone because of the heat,

you say it is because of the rain.

I have been reading similar books:
A History of American Life,

Well-Clad Windowsills, Freshwater

Fishing Tips and Techniques.

The book is now my not knowing 

the name of the tree I see outside

my daughter's window. The book

is not in the pool among the volatile 

compounds of chlorine. It is not under

the carpet or floorboards, or within 

anything I have disassembled: the car's

alternator, the ears of corn shucked 

after simmering in salted water. 

The loss is a self-portrait of loosened 

reason. When did the hair gray, when 

did the skin slacken?

I look for one thing, I find another. 

~ Stephen Sadler, 8/7/11