9.
Black Hole
When in doubt, look out the window and write
whatever comes out. Like: the blue in the sky is
a washed out hue, and clouds scud across it like
cotton floss, flotsam shredded at the bottom of a
forgotten bin. Ugh.
No. Think instead about birds:
fat robins pulling hapless worms from damp lawns,
each squirming mess a reminder of nature’s cycle,
how death leads to life leads to death, that (boring)
infinite circle of rot and rebirth. Oh, for God’s sake,
Laurie, don’t ruminate on all the bodies stacked by now
underground, sealed like Spam in metal coffins, or
about your own eventual immolation. Don’t worry.
Years from now, someone will scatter your ashes
over one of the oceans, and you’ll disappear, but today
it happens (at last) to be Spring, and so time to focus on
more amazing matters: lambs in Scottish fields, sunlight
at 7 pm, the approaching end of another semester, crab
apple blossoms waiting under their shiny branches,
summer freedom with its slow hot days and relaxed
reunions with old friends.
Laurie, Laurie, Laurie –
get your head out of your existential ass for a minute.
Everyone knows it’s a black hole. And certainly, nothing
(good or fine or holy) ever came out of it.
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