Terror when it goes leaves lifelessness’s big hole:
one does not wish it back, terror, fierce inhabitant,
a guest abruptly returned from a delayed leaving
there again at the door
so the doorways stir and fly: but how
great the vacancy! the attention turning
about to no attendant, the polish of absence’s
gist: there’s the first-quarter moon,
though, its own light emptying out the whole
dome, the sight of its loneliness confirming
one’s own: just somewhere to look
as if to find absence all together in one place:
recalling terror, though, may not be the same
as terror really gone, for in the recall of
suasions of the recently departed is still much
to muse on, the bridgeways and slidings to relief,
the simmering into assimilation of humiliation
and demand, the guest’s needs now only
images not to be answered or answered to:
if terror moves on away through the miles and
hours and relief loses focus, tires of dawdling,
and feels the first scorch of nothingness, oh, then,
emptiness’s own terror becomes another guest or
the same or just another some day, after
long entertainments, to take grateful leave of.
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