The Magnetic Field of a Minimum Absence

On the distracted wrist, a mute elsewhere,
not a hole, but a non-being of cloth.
A magnetic field, without glimmer or proof,
the absorbed sight reveals it there.

It is not a flaw that can be sewn,
but a round shadow where meaning lingers.
A light gravity, that drives crazy
the logic of touch, its crease.

And in that tiny unbuttoned cosmos,
a theorem of the unknown propagates.
More solid than expected, more rooted,
the void that investigates the whole form.