Is it strange to enumerate what we have
By knowing what we are missing?
Do the contents of emptiness somehow form a container for what exists?Where in the void can it be found, that list?
Is it in a rock rising suddenly from under a wave?
Does it live in the step missed while traveling downwards?
The drop of water that escapes the glass
Slides downward to fall
Disappearing on summer concrete?
Perhaps it is in the flail of limbs in that moment
You find yourself in the nothing while sleeping.
Is it strange to enumerate what we are missing
By what we have?
When we count our blessings
Is a shadow list formed as we write
Mirroring the lines in lemon juice
Seen only by the heat of our tears?