On Not Knowing

by Lesley Saunders

The nature of regret is delicate, a door
that should have been there, but is not;

what happened back up in the hills
was a matter of luck, nothing personal –

the fact of the forests, the leaf-moths,
the fork in the road. (There are no images,

save for the river running to sand, salt
on the tongue, the pulse of previous stars.)