| There is a hole. [ | ] is there, a holiness |
| around it, [ | ] holes in the medieval |
| mosaic [ | ] has been prized |
| by a crusader’s [ | ] The silence left |
| by the birds [ | ] king’s robe |
| of purple [ | ] feathered light |
| filling the abandoned [ | ] river. |
| The amphora [ | ] amphorafull |
| of museum air [ | ] lungs taking |
| in [ | ] atoms |
| of oxygen [ | ] patrons |
| took [ | ] studying a broken frieze |
| but failed to [ | ] passed |
| back into [ | ] The past, a kind of hole |
| we’re always [ | ] we are the hole |
| the past shovels [ | ] into. Oh but we |
| are bottomless, [ | ] unspooling out of us |
| like bright scarves. [ | ] magician |
| turns the empty [ | ] this way and that |
| to convince us of its [ | ] Hold on, |
| we say, as a pair [ | ] appear |
| from [ | ] Hold on, show us again. |
Photo:“Herman’s Eye”by Alan Levine; licensed under CC BY 2.0 Click here to read Nick Lantz on the origin of the poem.
Latest posts by Nick Lantz (see all)
- Bird Skull with [ ] - March 27, 2016


