The Idea of Nothing

Out of nothing, I
become nothing and will
leave again for it,
the nothing out of which

the stars boil up each
night, I know, out of nowhere,
the nothing out of which,
magically, I take my breath

and then quietly return
my old breath to sink in it.
And so it goes, this
meeting of my heart's knock

on nothing's door that
is never answered at all.
And the river of my words
flowing out to nothing's sea

and drowning there so that
everywhere I run into
it and down every road.
Who says that the sunlight

here can make a difference,
that the world we see
is real? I know that
the world dissolves before

this simple idea of nothing.
And bows before it as I do.
Soon my bones will bow before
it, and my teeth and hair.

Copyright © 2004 Sue Owen All rights reserved
from New Orleans Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission