Aug 122011
 
Syncopated zeroes,
Intending nothing,
Knowing nothing that knots
The nothing that they are,
Sing zero, sing zero
Around their open aches
Oohing outwards
Into a world too present present
To apprehend their absence,
Their hollow hallow core
And respite for thought,
Their assertion of a suction
And place for the present-absent
Among rogue marmalades
And ladies' parasols
Stacked backward in the attic. 

Because the mind moves ever-on,
Sentimental futurologist
Weeping over imagined ends
And incipient catastrophes
Only tracing thought portends,
A first wheel restless for neighbors,
These zeroes too can give
A now of nothing, a blank
For maps mind's one cartographer
Can skate in lines of pure invention;
Those zeroes, those zeroes too
Can give a uteral nurturance
By their nothingness, mere nothingness
In so much here.

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