Wednesday, March 16, 2022


The middle of something
can't really be measured;

the heart of any process 
has a process for a heart,

and the scientists charged 
with chopping stuff apart 

keep on finding substrates
and smaller bits and pieces. 

I'm guessing that's why 
the farther we go spinning 

away from that dark mystery 
at the crux of where we fit, 

the more dependent we grow 
on the truth of its existence: 

the irritating sand grain 
which gave the pearl its start;

that hole between the lips 
of the first person we ever kissed;

the absolute fixed dead center 
of a life we never intended to live—

wherever that was 
or is.