I’ll admit that absence
has a place:
between, for instance,
words, and on divans
once owned by aunts
now silent and gray.
But not in hands.
I can’t clutch at nothing
on chairs beside
or know that guiderails open
to the stone-black sky.

Space leads, always,
to unfilled space.
A point of light expands
but not enough;
the stars are spread
too thin, and no fire
burns behind the dark.