Dark Matter Ghazal
When they say everything is made of atoms,
they’re only off by ninety-six percent.
You can find one out of every twenty people
on Earth along the banks of the Yangtze.
I don’t care what the UN says,
desertification sounds delicious.
Even though he was punching the wall,
for some reason, she was the one crying.
Our love is Shakespearean
only in its vulgarity.
Let’s kill the rest of our lives at the ol’ black hole,
I mean glory hole, I mean hole-in-the-wall, wallflower.
We witness just our light, stolen from our bold star,
not the last loyal planet circling its cold star.
“Maybe that’s how the game works,” says the new sidekick.
“You mean when the game works,” sighs the creaky, old star.
While I slowly go sane, I dig in the furnace,
shifting through cinders someone told me was a star.
True, we’re rended astrally, but if you collapse
yourself before the bell, you can earn a gold star.
Holly, stand between concrete and heavy, black clouds
composed of one hundred thousand rolling starlings.