And in the middle of my grief
a puddle—
and in the middle of a puddle
a penny—
and in the middle of the penny
a president—
and in the middle of that president
a bullet—
and in the middle of that bullet
a wound—
and in the middle of that wound
another wound—
and in the middle of our wound
a night of splinters—
and in the middle of the night
a knock—
and in the middle of a knock
a go away—no one lives here—
and in the middle of away
a clothespin—
and in the middle of the clothespin
a wet field
filled with black-eyed Susans
a thousand traffic cones
or, a thousand yellow traffic lights,
their lights punched out.
in the middle of the field
a sinkhole—
in the middle of the sinkhole
a question—
and in the middle of the answer
a silence—
and in the middle of that silence.