This container
I've made—has few items
inside it
and every day
the inventory
procedure is the same.
Like fog
off the lake, the same
palpable blankness
moves inside
to slowly fill my heart—
each morning
I manage
to wend my
way again to the shore
where I stand,
declare I love it here—meaning
I would like it
to be true—
the surface stares,
unblinking,
unmoved,
gray. No such fact
of the matter
is entertained.
This universe
which owns everything
also
owes everything
nothing.
