A poem called "Teatro."
Sped each time into emptiness, gathering as we did--
reflexive--
against the oncoming naught.
Taut the tendons.
The raw curtains drawn onto our own releases.
What if room, the scuttled bracelets and strewn shoes,
were nothing more than so much decor?
And ourselves, massed in motion, but the figurants
of some abstract enactment?
No.
Not nothing, had written, but nothing,
and our limbs nimble swimming towards.
Special use of the word nothing which I think
derives from negative theology from Meister Eckhart from Saint
John of the Cross's nada.
It's a nothing that could be easily translated as everything.
It's a reversible word.