There’s a hole in every world
            an absence — taking many shapes
                        and none
                                    fitting many times
                        and all —
                                    that sometimes points to
                                  what is lost forever
                                what might yet return
                              what tears with hot and bloody breath
                           what pulls and nags
                                                            almost unnoticed
                         what is best unfilled, and
                      what we cannot live with if it’s left like this.

                              Few see what’s missing,
                                          what’s amiss,           awry,
                                        what stretches at the fabric of reality
                                                                 and puckers it.
                                                      Those cursed with greater sensitivity
                                                                        to such anomalies
                                    can feel              the corrugations
                                           follow them to where the hole
                                                         gapes                glistening
                                                                                with possibilities.

        Awareness, though, does not imply
                  ability to heal;                  those who sense
                                      the strange striations
                                                 in space-time
                         should step away,           steer clear.
                                           Every soul sucked in to longing
                                       stretches at its sides
                                 and so the gap
                             expands.