But what if

Every night before sleep,

idle librarial hands pull files from the 

archives of nothingness,

the one between my ears.

It's a mere subdirectory of the larger tributaries

a mix in the meta-metaphor, still

I'm partial to it since it's the only isn't I can call my own

my own private absent Idaho

filled with empty banker boxes long past the primes of their creases

the accordion folders flute-full with the inverse of something

the profoundest lack of all sense

the unnecessariest need sharpened by foxfat hunger

and the whisper of its vespers keeps me awake (alive)

until I can't remember I'm 

not.

Then the show hits its second act,

and if the lighttime nothing hasn't filled up 

the empty beds of my heart

(we have four, you know, two up and two down)

then the topsy-turvys take their turns,

spinning nothing on its crown,

a top, no bottom,

a long way down without even any turtles.

In this nothing nocturne

someone I never loved pops by

And I say,

Goodmorningmyangel

while I stab someone else with a box cutter,

someone I know quite well,

someone for whom nothing no longer comes of nothing,

someone who will erupt out of me in time,

as from a pastry bag, or cyst