not a starting point but the space between it and the point at which we end
a ball, balloon of emptiness
inside another emptiness
inside your thoughts on the empty inevitability
of your thoughts. It's effervescent, fizz
around a drain that becomes nothing
sooner or later.
Are you afraid of death?
Are you so uncomfortable at funerals
you fake lupus to avoid them?
It's not your parents, or their bodies there,
your lack of progeny that suggests the end, eventual
of all your useful thought—
and it's not the shell they've
built around yourself
to keep the world outside—