The holes in a thing, independentfrom the thing itself, are alikein that an absence is borderedby a presence, else it’s not a holebut a dent or bump or some othertopographical species, which is howa sick heart can be relatedto a healthy window screen,a shot man to a well, and all mouthsand all hungers are cousinsto each other and the scream,those holes we tear in the airto get to the other sideof whatever this is, pleaselet it be enough for me,the you and the trees of it, the manplaying his trumpet at sunsetacross the valley for everyonewho has died in the plague,and the horses that ignore him,and the moon lifting its holeof light above the horizonbefore the dark arriveswith its meticulous embrace.
Yonder
Bob Hicok
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Copyright © 2024 by Bob Hicok.
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Reproduced by Poetry Daily with permission.
Fall 2024
Saint Paul, Minnesota
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