Zero can hold me for days,
small sack of white,

and I hold it back
carrying it with me, hollow

as a wingbone,
weightless as winter light.

I bring zero here—
where the wind empties,

again and again, its mouth,
where seabirds circle and sing,

where men squat on buckets to fish—
and it swells in me, wet days

when the boats ghost past–
a zero so large I know

I could pass my body through it.