The Whole Hole
The whole hole, a doom laden pit; the weight of which bent our backs until we crawled about following blindly the buttocks in front. In saving ourselves we carved and sliced and chopped; doling the whole in wholly unique holes. Holes forming groves and dents and hidden dips. Containers for puddles and ponds and murky pools. Some yet carried the weight and bent double, toppled; threw themselves in. Only you can’t become the inside only the out. And you just cannot will yourself around a hole you’re in. My whole is tied in string, meshed in wire and pearled in knitted wool; carved into shutters, nailed under floors and bound in the words of my holy book. In the beginning I religiously cupped my hands to my face and drank it in. On dark nights, as the outside of a quart of shine, naked in my old boots, with the wind in my toes and the dirt firmly under my right heal, those little holes inside, together, grow whole old memories and push out joyous tears of our past hollow.
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