The Fountainhead

as you look
into the gaping hole
in yourself,
I look into mine,
standing rudderless
along the lips
of the great abyss,
that can never taste
the sweetness
of falling rain,
but only sip
from the wellspring
within,
hidden now
from measuring eyes.

The Hole

I don't know why
I feel a hole
deep inside,
a gaping hole -
was it always there?
or did it appear
when you were gone,
only to remind me
of something
that I need to own?
some holes I guess
are not to be filled,
or covered up
to make the landscape
look flat and nice;
some holes are there
to peer into,
to feel into,
so the emptiness
feeds
the breath
rising
like the snort of a whale,
from the desolate moor.

A Postscript

I speak my heart,
I sing my song -
a thousand names
for pain and joy;
a desperate clinging
to moments
of not knowing
that flow and melt
like lemon drops
in the mouth of a child,
with no beginning or end;
and yet I scurry
like a fearful rabbit
looking to capture that hole
through which
all things pass -
known and unknown;
the hole
I think and believe
is me.