the phantom limb in poetry

it’s been so dark for months now
I should guess right around nine
may as well be down in Plato’s Cave
waiting upon the prodigal sunshine
but not even a groundhog’s shadow
to say in six weeks it will be fine
out of space maybe also out of time
no olive branches for doves to dine
no one to hold and tell me “be mine”
an ache in the phantom limbic system
in my third eye or second brain stem

I’m down here in the hollow
might as well be blind, so
wrestling with wall-shadows
dreaming of dire tornadoes
struggling against gods and
you know how that story goes
as I wait on the prodigal sunshine
and I wait and I wait
and I wait and I wait