Posted by Daddy on May 2, 2011 at 11:53 pm

Hole
Troy Eckhardt

I whisper his name
but it’s not a prayer.
It’s and ache and a hope.

I study his image
but it’s not worship.
It’s a longing and a joy.

I stoop to touch one
once beside me
and feel,
yawning where he stood,
THE BLACK HOLE
as bottomless as time.

Holes are meant to be filled.

But not now, not yet.

I honor his absence.
I cherish the vacuum.
It’s a grief and a comfort.

Besides,

Nothing but him will fit in it.