hole in the world

 



Warm eastern
January night,

small miracle.

Scent of wood
smoke clings
to damp air.

Heading out the
back door,

meeting with
friends.

There is no
contemplation,
no concerns
about:

what the drunk
across the street
thinks,

what Donald
Trump thinks,

what Descartes
thinks,

what India
thinks,

because there
is a hole.

A cold and
friendless
hole like:

a hole in the
heart where
love bleeds
out,

a hole in the
head where the
bullet passed
through,

a hole in the
spirit where a
worm of evil
bored it's way
in,

a hole in the
world filled
the poor piety
of hypocrisy.

Don't fall
in.