If you become nothing
then that will be something—
because there is that word
for emptiness.
It is found in many homes—
Most, I’d say.
In some just ghostly present
sitting on the shelf in a black and white photo.
In others very recent,
that scent, that bed spot howling.
A cat bowl, unfilled.
Your nothing
—when I dare a second’s worth
imagining its eventual arrival
(before scooting away to think of . . .
well, just about anything else!)
is: an unacceptable!—
one that threatens to rupture Time itself.
What? No you?
Can that vast universe, above and in my head
embrace that much nothing?
Last night our bodies wrestled—
persuing that mutual aching need
to entwine, assert, surrender—
to ascend to the sate.
And thus we are handed tickets
to seperate cavalcades
departing now behind closed eyes.
