Here, near arrival,
The zero-th postulate:
I've never felt loss,
I just wasn't made to grasp.
An indefinite hold
is the closest unpalpable
approximation;
To be on hold implies
I live a moment away from being
with it, ascetic by chance;
To leave to chance keeps faith,
just undeterminably misplaced.
To misplace presumes a place;
Unfilled placeholders crowd,
take up shapeless space.
(I couldn't once be lost,
if I couldn't soon be found.
Can the once-seeing imagine
the ever-blind?)
Here, close to departure,
at the zero-th hour,
nothing follows:
I've never found a hole
I could keep in my fist.
Five or six years old, I read in some book
of belief, that in the beginning
there was Darkness.
My child's eyes closed. And before?
Before the beginning? No, before nothing.
No, complete nothing. No, nothing, nothing,
nothing, nothing, no thing,
without the hand to wipe it away,
free of my mind.
Dizzy, lip twitching in a smile, scared,
my heart leaping and my brain reeling
circular, furiously, trying to rub out
completely, like with the pink rubber end
of a pencil;
But eternal crumbs on my fingers and
I can't go on.
I've never been touched
by noone;
I can’t live without.