by Michael Gessner
Where is the home for consolation,
where it may go to heal itself
from what it has spent
on the frail, the dispossessed,
the grievers who have lost
themselves?
Where is it revived
so it may once again take up
in its feathery arms
the horror vacui,
to pass over a face
like a new moon,
to move the hand again,
to shake an empty bottle
into a jar of rubies?
— from Juniper Volume 2, Issue 1