How Blank

How blank nothing is.
Even the stilled paddle
sends bubbles
down into the mud green weeds.

How blank nothing is.

Even the cement sky
has space
all around the small boat of us
enough for what we don’t want to remember,
but do: the last harsh gestures
of endings.

The space after them.

Winter.

How blank nothing is.

Even night January cold
has the ice of Superior
small cracks.

How blank nothing is.

Even the steam
from our sauna skins
follows our casting
over the black water.

The last harsh gestures.

Winter.

Copyright Kay Winter

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4 thoughts on “How Blank

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