poem, poetry, Uncategorized

lacuna

drum dry the pond becomes
with no daughters and no tadpole sons
or mother’s chiding at the splash
that hits above the basin-line
mother making sure my head stays mine

in love the draft is let in
to the backmost jars of your cabinet
harried by some rattling, seismic
undulating, rising

and the jars are called upon at last
and the jars admit that they are but glass
and the jars admit they are only containers
and the jars are called upon to last

and in fear all is awakened
and in fear all potential is acknowledged
do not look to say i knew it, lacuna
filled be not the dregs
no, the gills is space

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