WEBVTT

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This poem is called
"Nothing Happened."

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And then it keeps
happening, like a hole

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in the middle of the
memory of a field.

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The interruption of it
spreading, widening out

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toward the edges.

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Or is it that the field,
receptive, pours itself

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into it?

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Like a consummation.

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The way a fire can
realize by feeding.

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What knows a thing better
than what consumed it?

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Like the deepest active
black of this cast iron pan.

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Constant reminder:
omen of the stove.

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The dead center
of an inhuman eye.

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Its iris is my living
space, my entire life.

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And what next?

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Nothing rested, or
it may have tried to.

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But everyone in power
kept wanting to keep it,

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to keep it going, to
stop it from solidifying.

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They needed it to seep its way
into everything, everything.

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They needed it to
push past the filters,

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to replace the filters.

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They needed it to take the place
of everything, and it does.

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It swallows inconsistencies
the way a snake swallows eggs.

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I crack an egg into the
pan, I'll crack another.

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I felt it was the last.

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I feel there can be no more.

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Nothing laughed.

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And as it keeps
laughing, I remember

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a painting of curtains
so lifelike, no one who

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looked at it didn't feel
some new reality stirring

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inside them.

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Just look how the
folds now are starting

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to disturb themselves, as
if about to catch fire.

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