Curvature
By Kate Locke
Normal.
Nothing happening.
No curvature of sorts.
No curl of the lip or tongue.
No crinkling of the eye.
No swerving of the thoughts.
Birds calling.
Traffic Passing.
Routine I guess.
But there's no curvature of my head.
My taste buds aren't swerving.
It's just one of those
Straight down the middle kind of days.
Nothing great to tell.
No pressing smells.
It's so full of nothing it reminds me of
Afternoons.
Dry heat lazing sun.
Orange glows light breeze
Grasses blowing dusty billboards swinging
Lone car droning and a bird.
All flying across the faded dusty sky.
The epitome of nothing isn't nothing.
Nothing isn't just blackness or whiteness.
Or whatever your colour preference.
It is stylized gravitised stabilized in our minds
Our nothingness is ourselves
So then it must be something?
Nothing happening.
It's all just straight down the middle.
No curvature.