I dig for an artifact of me in myself–
hot shovel, cold hands. Last year (and the next),

I grieved on an airplane of my own longing,
finally over a peak to be proud of and the

outside would have killed me. Yet the air
inside was stale– passing breaths of confined

bakers, strangers, hagglers. Their quiet chatter,
occasional laughter only filtered through my ears.

I was (and will be) a hole better voids can fill.

(originally published in Agony Opera, Summer 2021)