There is a tiny hole into which all things fall eventually,
a crazy density that holds light a prisoner.
And there are all the things you ever owned, but tiny,
and also, all the things you never owned,
because they were too crooked,
and too silly, and
The imagination ambles down a path and lumbers towards us,
crooked and silly and curious: stumbles into
the black hole where Isaac Newton’s pyjamas
are trapped with yesterday’s left-overs.
Where light cannot escape even though
this place is so small
it may not even
And it cannot illumine either, is
reduced to atoms trying
insanely to leave at 9.46053
miles per second: a pretty
THESE JEWS for MB,TB, and SB
with dark beards
have befriended me,
They have what to say:
Their mothers Saran Wrap the living room,
their lovers can’t laugh but
wait for gifts,
round and fat like
a pear’s bottom
or an ass.
with mothers who
drive to the supermarket,
construct their sons like
then convert their bedrooms into dens
“For the company”
-have found me.
With one arm flung out in the circle dance
of our grandmothers,
merchants’ wives in Kiev
who now call aluminum foil “silver paper.”
We give each other words,
round and fat
like a pear’s bottom
or an eggplant.