There is an entrance, but no exit. A top,
but no bottom. Nothing fills, nothing completes it.
Inside the gullet, a frozen river.
Within the ice, a cloud of worry transfixed
by microscopic lenses. We see what we see,
hope for more. Or less. Nothing satisfies
the constant gnawing, the inevitable
question. Asking why, we find nothing. Again.
Which is the truth: nothing. The eternal zip.
A column of zeros multiplied by more
zeros, equaling oblivion. Nothing.