Poetry

Nothing-ness fills me 
again. Once visiting a funeral 
home, a child asked me, 
why do the people die? 
 
How do I explain the dark 
side of life? A blunt trauma, 
makes me jaded. One collapsing 
process creates the black hole. 
 
A nude, the tall figure, stands 
on the rock, much venerated, 
and you cannot take off the 
eyes, deciphering the skin. 
 
In the intense pain of― 
learning, a fantasy of 
looking out at a ghost deity 
in the vegetable, springs a miracle.