I tore it open
and started to stuff
it full of stories and string
and whatever came to hand
as I was casting about for yet
more to fill its sucking
unsoothable emptiness--
tales tragic and trivial,
endless facts and recipes
for foods no one would ever eat,
murders and weddings and the vast
silence the underlay the thunder
of the pounding surf. And still
there was no help for it--
each thing I stuffed in only
made it emptier. Who knew
that emptiness could grow bigger
could consume everything?
And yet the more I stuffed
inside the less it contained
worthy of note. Should I cease
and sew it up? Should I cast it
into the sea to see if it should be swallowed
or more likely swallow the bitter
salty sea and still be craving
in its emptiness.


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