What’s Left

There’s no hole, no true gash
In the world—at no time
Is there a null, and yet

Things go, and if you don’t,
Have not yet, you miss them,
And that’s where the poems end

To try to start once more.
A pause, fine. A long pause.
We’d like that. But the pause

Ends up one of those things
That go and are missed, though
There’s no real gap. A poem

Starts up there, not to fill
But to soothe the fresh ache
Of what’s left, then, still left.