I read somewhere about black holes,
black holes on trains in stained tartan shirts,
that cock pierced eyebrows at City Center
on their way to class, black holes in knit
dresses, black holes yawning.
I met one once, by the steps at Saint Patrick’s
cathedral. It touched my wrist,
I went home and threw away every watch I owned,
every bracelet, cuff, bangle.
Staring into a black hole that evening
I poured all of myself out and it drank
Have you ever poured milk into a gutter?
I met a black hole with an easy smile
and did just that, until I was
a carton emptied by clumsy
and it was still unfilled,
because it is hard to fill a gutter.
We put our hands in each others’
suns set on an event horizon,
and there is the tug of the black hole
on my arm, the empty weight of nothing,
nothing at all.