Hands plunged
deep in the silver kitchen
sink again, cold
water touches them
and flows, and I think,
or really, don't—
this is all completely
made of holes;
weekends,
subsisting by kind permission
of a temporary
dearth of original ideas—most
weekdays, nesting
in those empty spaces
in the middle of certain vowels
where a certain wind blows
nothing but the chunk
of wind that had just a moment ago
come blowing,
nothing but its own
hollow cartoon
sound of wind-blowing,
nothing but—every suspicion
of its own lack of essence
out of existence.
