The Volupté of Lack

What we know as “black” –
the visual illusion of abyss –
implacably delineates –

in some hands to the point
of rapture and illicit bliss –
the volupté of lack.

Death’s defined through
living dread of it. Life defines
itself because it cannot not:

it is the shape that hops
around the rude unmoving spot:
below-behind-ahead-atop –

we know it from its endless
bright depictions of itself.
Perception of the void is not

the void. For all we know
there is no void – and therefore
nothing to avoid. But volupté

requires a fetish of oblivion –
green-gold as absinthe –

decadently celebrating absence.

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