In solitude
we wait for light to emanate through us like silver leaves falling down
into empty depths full of new hope,
thoughts, curdling always from the blackest of blacks––
blackness night voids

We sit in our dilapidated boats, fishing in the streams,
our lines in the water curling and
circling around,
our minds receptive, casting nets into
nothingness black voids

We realize ourselves in these brittle moments of nonthoughts—
hunting with our neuronconnecting rifles:
the little rabbits, the little fish
in black oceans and black fields––
black nothingnight voids

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