Holes
— Make a joke on Twitter about the sudden absence of coffee filters in the house and Cinderella’s “Don’t Know What You Got (Till It’s Gone).” Then think about the real relationship between the gone coffee filters and phantom quantities. Think about things that are assumed to be accounted for. Think of how in song titles with a parenthetical phrase the encased portion is the disposable tier. Think of how this is part of a process of long digital caverning. Think of what you got and where it is. Think on small grief. Think of where you will be when it hits you, arms crooked, drinking something through a straw with your free mouth.
— A note in the front of my book, the book I brought to the author, that she might sign it. But I forgot, and it lingered in my bag, a passed object. But, today, in the book she gave me, from one month ago, in the very front pages, which I never look at, like the back pages, final ornaments—a note in the front of my book.
— There are grounds at the bottom of my coffee cup which were holes in the coffee.
