my head is a drum,
empty save for thoughts of you.
which float, intangibly, and occupy
all the space, yet
no space at all.
it does not profit me
to fill my head with you.
there is no room for the crude oil
that would make me a mogul.
they say drums are made
to carry dangerous things:
it’s true.
for in this drum,
all that hazardry
amounts to you.

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