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.
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