or 0, emptiness
like the stars in the distance—
placeholder the other side
or 0, the shell of the circle
washed onto the sand
who plays no ocean song
when conjoined to the ear
or 0, the ring without it’s
finger, waiting to be filled
with the act—matrimony
or 0, the racetrack
where decisions orbit
the cavern, the centerpiece
of grass like kids
spinning dreidels
or 0, the glue,
the seamstress of the industrial,
and .com boom—
we crowd around you,
spell out our loneliness
in google search bars and
baited tweets
like fishnets searching
for a catch—
a reason to stroke the fire
so, we won’t go hungry
anymore
or zero, the humming
of fourteen cylinder
engines
the number that zipped
the sky apart
with seven millimeter
guns leaving your own
zeros in the sides of planes,
the plating of ships,
until you became the finger
sliding into the pearl
ring left by the sink,
as we washed dishes
or zero,
who rests like shells
waiting for the sea to wash
you ashore
although no one hears
your engine roar
anymore
or zero, the last
unsaid stop of 3,2,1—
where the world
begins
and 0,
like a rising sun,
you bring with it
the supple milk
of daybreak
Photo by Richard Pasquarella on Unsplash