Tuesday, February 28, 2023


True blankness 
isn't white, like a glass 
of cold milk is; 

it hits not a bit 
like snow, bleached 
paper, or crisp sheets. No, 

the blankness 
which crouches
inside of you now

isn't even part
of your bodily 

And in truth,
it's so good, 
so pure, and so right 

that it's not even 
like light,
so much as 

Einstein's densest,  
most compressed equation 
which describes it—or

maybe, it's more like 
the time 
that a cloud takes 

to rain itself cleanly right 
out of existence. 
The point is— 

what you're feeling 
is not even a feeling

the experience 
of whichever feeling 
you'd expected 

slowly dissipating—
as you come, with neither
malice or elation, 

to know: it was doing 
nothing for you.