I once discovered that my brain is abyssal.
A mirror at most, a shadow or crystal.
As I unclenched, I found not a fist full.
Like dismissal, it's blissful.
Like some empty shape
much less than the wastes;
a smooth, silent stillness,
without mean, without make.

An empty fist is still a fist.
I am so
because there is
nothing
inside me.