There’s a hole in my chest
where the truth’s supposed
to be. There’s a hole in my
head where this creation’s
supposed to be. I’ll pour
everything in, I wonder,
filling it, suppose, and what
will be left. What will, answered,
but French-braided ambiguity.

What’s better, though, better,
though, than more questions
and sweet repeats better
than dying inside imagining
it’s all out there, answered,
out there far, too close, Mr.
Benjamin, close and in it
closes in, Mr. Benjamin, you
know.

Theatrics, though, only those
repeats and no matter, all
gray and no body. But all’s
well that ends, leaning on is,
rather, rather than says since
each instant’s a new time to
soar, to soar or, to soar or