Poetry Drawer: Hole by Mark Sheeky

fire

How can I explain,
thirty years of hole
now filled, like an electric light
in a sea-storm of cyan
salt and introspective madness.

How can I portray
red boot-lace nerves
that weep, now relaxed after
a life of brass piano-string tension
and grating humming burning.

How can I convey nothing,
nothingness,
blackness,
blackness,
hole, and
hole,
except by something
lovely and hot, melting, flying,
rays like arms of fire that stretch
and connect and feel, caress,
weep, and love.

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