A Hiccup In Time
I heard it on the radio yesterday.
Scientists have discovered a hole in time
filled with nature’s hair and empty bottles.
I tried to follow along.
I imagined walking down a smooth street
and tripping on a lip of concrete–
(the scientists call this lip the event horizon).
Beneath this lip,
a black-mouthed sinkhole opens up–
blacker than the death of a dog.
The hole is infinite but the size of a pin-prick_
expansive enough to contain a thousand black suns.
On the other side of the hole,
the sidewalk smooths out again.
Everything that falls into this hole disappears
into its mysterious depth:
fold in on themselves–
and become random particles
never to re-emerge.
The story made me feel very small.
Smaller than when I look up at the moon.
I realize I am a mere adhesion
on a thin tissue of time.
I am a postage stamp
on the missing envelope.
I am a floater,
a small pair of wings that forgot how to fly.
I am a cluster of pink buds falling,
into a gap of my humility.
The Manhattanville Review, September, 2015