Vastness can be a thing, palpable,
touchable, an object that can be grasped
in the hand, a fragile parchment, where
if unrolled would reveal secrets.
In cupped fingers as an injured wren, with a heart
beating in persistence out of proportion to it’s dimension.
Vastness can be an icy landscape, where
the only presence is that of the implied bodies
now gone. The survivors ferried
to warm kitchens, where they sip tepid coffee
and their minds slowly unclench their proximity to death.
Taking a squeegee to the still-wet painting,
all of the trees and clouds,
the crowds and awkward nudes
painted in night classes, the
still lives of rusted pitchers and lemons,
and wipe/smear them with a single stroke
into one vast moment
where all of the cars and lights, and
honking beatboxes retreat beyond
the fresh, cold just begun.