Loss by Michael Lithgow

Speak slowly at first so the words can find 
their moments of disbelief.  Every syllable 
is a kind of hunger with tendrils reaching
from the messy mathematical soil of your memory
to your need.  Be prepared to flinch,

let some of the words crack the glass face 
of the present.  The tendrils also touch
the future.  Sometimes a beautiful sound.  One of sorrow’s chimes.

~ from Undercurrents, New Voices in Canadian Poetry
edited by Robyn Sarah (Cormorant Books, 2011)