From zero to zero
we span a little thread
vibrate to the sigh
and shout,
the wail and whisper,
kiss and caress.
We are the tremor
in the air that in the
moving is moved.
How can the sum
of it be zero
isn’t the question.
The shadow
of our sway
will in time
seep into the
waiting sky,
become the fabric
we once looked
into, and
we
will
be
gone.
How can the sum
of it be zero
isn’t the question.
Between two zeroes
was the touch
of the hand
against the clouds,
the trace of a name
in the echo of a
chain of voices,
in the space
between two zeroes.
Warwick McFadyen
