Richard Hoffman
Staff Feature

The Hole

There’s a hole in this poem, a hole
where all the usual ways I know
to write a poem are stuffed to block
the cold wind of the unexpected,

a hole that allows the loud world
to decide which portion of itself
to poke through and require me
to describe it or address it, a hole

that, left open, keens and moans,
howls or bellows as what blows
through it sounds like a sorrow
that would be mine if I so chose.

But not tonight. Tonight I seal
and caulk the breach with what
my words can also do: protect me
until morning when I’m stronger.


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