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Black Holes

When giant things move,
we’ve learned, they warp time
and the space around them. 
They push gravity
the way ships push water
away from their sharp bows.
So two black holes that swing
and spin around one another
like figure skaters on black ice,
as these giants stare
into one another’s enormous, dark eyes,
they ripple the past and the future
all around them.

I think of the infinite, infinitesimal galaxies
that are constantly being born
and destroyed in the thin gaps
between my fingernails and fingers,
the solar systems of dust
gathering under my bed.
For the inhabitants that sense
my hulking presence,
aren’t I like those black holes?

As I thump and rumble across rooms,
my sharp nose splitting the air
out in front of me,
aren’t I warping time?
Doesn’t the past and the future
coalesce right in front of my eyes?
If I could simply focus,
wouldn’t I be able to see you again,
walking slowly under the bare branches
of winter oaks, smoking a cigarette?
Shouldn’t I be able to talk to you,
shouldn’t I be able to apologize
for the huge spaces that opened
between us?