I
M, the ink-man, the ar-tist
calls it negative
Me, the un-poetic
calls it white;
space, the final frontier
it’s the things unseen
in the peripheral there
between the lines in
crevices where life grows
despite the dying light
II
I read I write
grasping Oxford commas
and double-taps
in fists furled
holding space
in my little black heart
for the dead and dying
