I am lost in the living, in the acceptance
of rain filling a bucket,
in the belief
that the chemical burn was a washing
for the exodus
and the smoke rising through the chimneys
into the pale blue morning was a love song.
There are days when I wake
and find my face is a hole
and I have nowhere to hang my mask.
— Carl Adamschick, from “The Emptiness,” Curses and Wishes: Poems (Louisiana State University Press, 2011)