The Blankness in the Dark

Although the notion is appealing, no one
Starts from zero. You cannot start from zero.
Zero lingers, hidden, in all things. That’s why

It had to be invented—surfaced, hauled out
Of the waves like a whale, like a lantern fish
Of perfect blankness, which is also perfect

Darkness. But that zero, that useful, human,
Beautiful zero is an art, a symbol,
A notation that acknowledges absence

Lurks in all things, every balance and exchange.
But that’s not nothing, not absolute zero,
Ex nihilo. The mystery is nothing

Pervades us, calls us, all of us, words and lives,
The lightest elements and supermassive
Black holes out and on toward it, but is not

Ever in anything itself, cannot be.
If there were nothing, then there would be nothing.
There would be nothing if nothing could be.

Then why is it so tempting to try to scrape
And clear away, to reach to the origin,
Some origin, any original blank

And start, again, from there? Artists and prophets
Crave this the most, but everyone knows the urge
To wipe it away, to start over. You can’t.