May 11, 2021
there’s a hole so big in the middle of me
the fish wander in and say “look at this one,
enough for the water to set in the sides.”
They move in. But they don’t last long.
Within the hole is a hole that drains
the water away. And the birds will fly through.
They say, “look at this one, nice and roomy.
Nice and warm.”
They move in. But it’s doesn’t stay warm.
It’s cold. The eggs don’t hatch.
The species die, in this little
hole of mine.
And then there is nothing. Where the void is
is a void all the same.
Why would it bleed when it cares not to,
or much about anything.
There was a hole, in the middle of me.
Now it’s just a hole, a part of me
that used to care for fish
that used to care for birds
that used to care