This poem is called "Nothing Happened."
And then it keeps happening, like a hole
in the middle of the memory of a field.
The interruption of it spreading, widening out
toward the edges.
Or is it that the field, receptive, pours itself
into it?
Like a consummation.
The way a fire can realize by feeding.
What knows a thing better than what consumed it?
Like the deepest active black of this cast iron pan.
Constant reminder: omen of the stove.
The dead center of an inhuman eye.
Its iris is my living space, my entire life.
And what next?
Nothing rested, or it may have tried to.
But everyone in power kept wanting to keep it,
to keep it going, to stop it from solidifying.
They needed it to seep its way into everything, everything.
They needed it to push past the filters,
to replace the filters.
They needed it to take the place of everything, and it does.
It swallows inconsistencies the way a snake swallows eggs.
I crack an egg into the pan, I'll crack another.
I felt it was the last.
I feel there can be no more.
Nothing laughed.
And as it keeps laughing, I remember
a painting of curtains so lifelike, no one who
looked at it didn't feel some new reality stirring
inside them.
Just look how the folds now are starting
to disturb themselves, as if about to catch fire.