That poet last night set spin wheeling nouns and verb sighs.
Just one.
His verses coursing by pleasurably permeable, sealed lids,
Just zero.
Shuttering a head hollowed of word, notion or expectation.
Just one.
Emptied, spaciously awaiting fellow travelers’ souvenirs.
Just zero.
“Hear with eyes closed and you’ll see,” you once told me.
Just one.
Fluff-sniff uttered tears, sentimental notes on napkins, he
Just zero.
Etched lines pressed hard, full hearted and tritely delivered.
Just one.
But none, no magical words soothe-slid my ear’s tongue.
Just zero.
Like a sketched sea on an amber lit canvas of indigo waves
Just one.
You once cyber brushed in digital smears, dot and stroke,
Just zero.
In feathered illusion, simulations of depth, heat and space,
Just one.
But shallow and frail–less breath, less truth, less warmth–
Just zero.
Your screen nearly lifted me, lying flat across atoms and time:
Just one.
No light, no touch, no sight, no rhyme, no texture, no heights
Just zero.
In the gaze of the other 