they found it, three weeks later, nestled in the cavity
  strung on luminous tethers, marching through the halls
goosestepping to an empty rhythm it didn’t quite remember
     empaled on absconded history

wanting nothing but to ravage its victims,
                but too afraid they’d then stop coming back
it turned on itself instead, wishing to rip and tear the bones
          but under its flesh    it found
                      only tissue
           and instead of pain,   it found

                      only a forlorn feeling


—

it’s a direct corollary of the axiom of extensionality in ZFC

      that there is exactly one nothing

that’s the cruel irony, isn’t it?

     the univocity of loneliness
                the self similarity of absence

it’s a direct corollary of the axiom of foundation,
     that in every collection, no matter how small, there’s always a fragment of emptiness

that’s the beautiful irony, isn’t it?

     that insurmountable chasm,
                               of particularity
                        of difference


is itself
   always constant
   always the same