Nothing was always something for him.
"Think Nothing of it," he said,
"and live as if it mattered for Nothing
because it probably did."
Yet when the darkest hour came,
he thought he saw a special hell,
not the one that Dante saw,
but nothing, nothing, nothing at all,
except when he thought that he heard
a lullaby his mother once played
and thought perhaps his waiting tomb
might really be another womb,
something the Easterns wrote about,
although he would not wager that
nor the sounds of a dulcet voice
and a fading violoncello.