The Fathoming
The vastness of the un-encountered
is breathtaking. Trust me,
I’ve crunched the numbers.
The math is wet fox fur
and Baudelaire, a forbidden
fathoming of eyelashes.
Doors grow wings. Inside that envelope,
it’s snowing. Someone wanders
a motel hallway searching
for an ice machine. And all along
I could have found you,
there in any dictionary. The what-if
saddens like a skylight in hell.
Like a jar of orphaned buttons.
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