The Art of Empty M.J. Iuppa Staring at a face made of bricks, small and neat, cured in the weather of transition, this puzzle of conformity cracks when someone notices an edifying leak—
O mouth, o rusty faucet come loose in this pressure, waiting for a stuck spigot to open with the rush of water, professing a truth few hear— Why do I dream this insight? Is it to be charitable, letting a steady draft usher every last thing onto a small boat that’s stowed beneath a bridge? Who else knows that this is an escape? Who is this figure coming towards me?