Friday, April 19, 2019


The margins of a math book
crawl with a sequence
of dragons, flaming,
flying, hoarding, filling
every gap with their pencil-lead gems.

Printed poetry picks out
mere specks of ink
from an infinitely possible array of white,
letting the mind fit itself in
around what was said
to assume everything else.

Empty lines on a calendar,
like white black holes,
fill their minutes, then hours, then days
with menological gravity.

Even as I type,
space, tab, carriage return,
are honored
with the largest keys.

But where,
in my mind now,
is the space
for another poem
to germinate?

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