Dave Bonta's "Hole" turns an absence into a character. The hole sits among things that are "flat and decent", a pair of words that suggests smooth, orderly, respectable surroundings. Next to them, the hole is the odd one out, and the poem says it "suffered alone." That small verb gives it feelings, so we start to see it as an outsider rather than a mere gap.
The hole is then pushed "out on the margin / of the untrue," which is a strange, slippery phrase. Perhaps the flat, decent world is a kind of polite fiction, and the hole is what that fiction can't hold. The last lines are the most puzzling: whoever finds the hole will miss it. I read this as a paradox. To notice an absence is to feel what's lacking, so finding it and missing it become the same act.
The mood is quiet, spare and wistful, with a touch of dry humor in how seriously it treats nothing at all.