You’ve left a hole
the size of the sky
in the chair across the table
in the chasm of the closet
your shoes hold the shape
of every step we took
through the seven rooms
of a world with no language
but that of moving
on macadam and the miles
of velvet earth before rainfall
between rows of corn
and up the curving drive
until they landed beside
the bed a black hole
you disappeared through
as I look for a sign
of you slivered with stars
your body without borders
nowhere and everywhere
in the wind moving through trees
on its way down the hall
to the back of my neck
in the chill you still send through me
and so I slip into the deep
abyss of your shoes
standing where you were last
pointing in two directions
trusting the way forward
is also the way back
—Wyatt Townley, “Abyss”
Art Credit David Cooper
