Wednesday, October 24, 2012


It won’t be long
Before the careless brush
Of a hand
Will tip over
This tall pitcher of a universe
That holds everything
In its dark belly.
And the crash
That follows
Will be silent
Because there will  be
Nothing for it
To echo against.
And the sudden emptiness
That we will feel
In the pit of our stomachs
Will inverse and occupy
In a monumental vacuum
All that surrounds  it.
We will all be reduced
To empty bellies and
Nothing to feed them.
No way in
And no way out.
And the giant hand that
Tipped the pitcher
That holds the last of
The blackness
Under its fingernails
Will tickle them
In the perverse idea
Of a joke
And we will laugh as we weep
In the helpless submission
That we fell in
As we believed
That the hand
Will always provide
Even if the universe was
Reduced to empty bellies
With no she and he
To fill them anew.
But what will remain are
The thoughts you thought.
For they were empty to begin with.
And the words I wrought
That were light as air.
So stay hungry and
Store a thought in your belly.
That occupies one dimension
But survives the death of
All the rest.
So that after the
Pitcher spills over
And washes away
The last of the blackness
There still remains
The  faint glow
Between our bellies
Of the hunger that made you
Think of my presence
Of  the hunger that made me write
About yours.

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