The best poems almost mean something,
Touching on nothing
As if absence were a spiritual value.
I go down to the river with a bucket.
There is no water.
The stones are almost whispering.
I ladle air into the bucket.
I carry it back to my room and pour
It on my head.
I imagine that I am swimming.
I am not.
I am waiting for winter to freeze me over.
I will ice skate on my face.
I will cut a new smile.