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Lacuna
In the end
the world is empty
enough to move in
—to learn how best to hold a lantern
drunk in the forestdark—
yet small
enough for tracks
of pine needles
to lead to your stockingfeet
There is more to negative
space: more
to the distance between
a trampled fern
& cloudhang
than a cypress can account for
in the end
In the end
the world is full of gaps:
hollows for coyotes
to plug with howls
fogdoms for herons
to labor through
& what isn’t void
is made of ends:
the apex leaf—
a fingertip—
in the end