There’s a hole underneath each eyelid, inside of which sit our eyes.
There’s a hole where the window sits, for us to look outside.
There are two holes in our snout to sniff to breathe or to blow.
There’s a hole in the middle of both our ears and a trap below the nose.
There are a whole lot of different ones, a whole lot of different holes.
What’re you gonna do with yours?
There’s space between our fingers, so we can pick things up.
There’s a yawning gap in the golden silence when no one can shut up.
There are holes in our argument sometimes when we think.
There’s a slit down the middle of our ass when we have to cause a stink.
There are a whole lot of different ones, a whole lot of different holes.
What’re you gonna do with yours?
There’s a hole in the head of the cycloptic trouser snake.
There’s a ditch beyond the bushes where at night it lies awake.
There’s a hole where we come from & six-foot deep one when we die.
There are little wells in your cheeks when you pout your lips and wonder “why?”
There are a whole lot of different ones, a whole lot of different holes.
What’re you gonna do with yours?
There are holes so black and massive that not even truth escapes.
There’s a wormhole in my pocket, where I fit all boundless time & space.
There’re holes punched in the cards we were dealt, laid facedown on the rug.
In all the barrels in your arsenal & two pairs of arms wrapped up in a hug.
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