HOLE

Somewhere in these uncertain
geometries lay the square of the heart
the cube root of disdain made planar
by the summation that if
we box this in — lid it correct
in all its angles, right and true — if we
then seek to calculate with how many
broken leads consumed in such
an area as this, these convolutions
bordered on madness — held and boxed
we will find the lines porous or perhaps
mantled as an appendage of dis— or perhaps
come to the stark pronouncement that
each thing contained — each thing stripped
of its tendrils, arms, hands, eyes — now
a known quantity — is > in spite
of all our vain and specious efforts, in fact
a hole into which we ourselves must fall.

Image: Matthieu Joannon on Unsplash