To the Black Hole:
I’m afraid I don’t know who else to write to.
The fire is brightest where the sun holds its hands.
Where I was born is a long way from here.
I’ll never get back there.
A baritone voice booms in a language I don’t speak.
Is home everywhere. It cannot be. It’s a mass or
a revel of forest dwellers worshipping death.
I’m not prejudiced. I sing along. Help me.
The chorus gets louder and the trees tremble,
drop their leaves, pull up their roots, and run like deer.
I run with them. I fall in quicksand. I sink. I’m being
pulled in. When only my head is above the murk
I begin to see I never did exist. It was a twist,
my brain, the revolt of neurons.
All the same help me. Help me.
Nothing else is.