The water tanker

Where you begin with the water tanker
A keyboard presses into repeated poetics
But the sound of  tanker soon drifts away
Only a neighbor's hole is filled to its brim.
His  water speaks softly to his wet dark.
Our hole is still empty, holding the night.

Morning fears dark silences in cisterns
And much more, their empty air sounds.
Only the waters from a distant hole can
Transform their vacuum state to a fluid .
 You  only can open morning's skull-plates
And pour  poetry words into its dark hole
Waiting for the sputter of the next tanker.

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