The distinctive thing about Swiss cheese,
the gorgeous holes,
the gas fermenting bubbles
leaving hollows,
shaped emptiness.
Some lacy. Some perfect spheres.
Some amoeba-like,
amorphous.
Swiss cheese,
notable for what is not there.
Yet we buy it not for nothing
but to enjoy,
smooth texture,
sharp taste,
a gentle scratch upon the tongue.
Poems, too, are made of what is and isn’t there.