Dave Bonta's short poem circles around loss without ever saying exactly what has been lost. It opens with a question and a single image, "her hair of red silk", which suggests a particular woman, though the poem never says who she is or what has happened to her. The speaker seems to be reaching toward someone who can no longer be reached.
The middle lines turn strange and tender. A private joy, the poem says, is lighter than any Christ, and it becomes "more than pleasure", something closer to a presence or a faith. Then the poem shifts to "the country where now is", a place that can't be lived in, only passed through: not staying but "breaking up." The "other clothes / full of morning" suggest moving on, changed and a little renewed.
The ending is a hard question: who could bear this loss? The mood is quiet and aching, but the morning imagery keeps a thread of light running through the sorrow.