A deepening,
richening,
falling
as children die asleep.
Her eyelids clink shut.
The warm malleability,
the snuggle smell of oatmeal and softly guzzled milk,
fade, leave empty fingers,
broken eggshells, empty palms.
The dark closes,
and the cradle is a marble horror.
Nothing can’t be knocked away but nothingness itself.
Desire pulls my hand
and wheels my body through the rut-
a steaming toddy or a gemütlich, red-bound book,
that aged-cardboard smell in floppy pages
as they flip across my lap.
Left in the dust, alone on the path,
my lost mind whimpers;
for it knows beneath the flesh,
is the universe itself –
Not the rags, but the bag,
Not the book, but the binding,
Not the drink but the cup –
the Nothing.
(won’t be knocked away!
It’s nothingness
itself.)