The Hole

I am filling the hole you left me
	with words
(those words I can remember)


I am stuffing it with images
	colors
	smells
other sensory data


laughter
	old anecdotes
	dates
	names
even unspoken fears


the hole eats and grows,
I carry it inside me like a womb,
	secret,
	dark
but not warm.

I am feeding it philosophies
	books
	art exhibits
	museums
and omelettes.


I have tried several brands of ketchup.


When you send me your address
I think I will post it to you
	or,
failing that, to Alaska
where it can become the center
	of an avalanche
	the vortex of a storm
	the genius of a glacier
or simply
an anomaly among Dead Letters.