Robert Okaji

Self-Portrait as Hole Self-Portrait as Hole

That which I contain
breeds space, confined within
borders and the logic of separation.
Or, looking closer you see
only losses reinforced at the edges,
some sharp, others polished smooth
as broken glass washed ashore,
still transparent yet altered. Is filling
the answer? Is correction,
repair? Standing alone, I am emptiness
incarnate. Nothing. I say again: Nothing.

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