“There’s emptiness and then there’s emptiness,”
the wise old voice inside me sighing said
(and maybe not so wise as old, I’d guess):
the emptiness that sits like something dead
and leaden just behind your heart and bred
there by a life too silly and too sad
and maybe (I would guess again) too mad.

And then again there’s emptiness of quite
another sort: not stuck behind the heart
at all but wafting, weaving, strangely light,
a purity that’s been there from the start
whose sweetness in the soul the sense imparts
that God again is at his crazy game
where emptiness and fullness are the same.

Sites of the Shutdown