01 September 2016

Poem-A-Day #185 : The Smallest Black Hole

The Smallest Black Hole

Behind the old barn
with the peeling boards
and the holes in the roof
there is a black hole
it's small and doesn't eat much
couldn't even
in the mornings it spins itself up
and begins the slow pull
of the land
the fallow fields like a sheet over a body
pulled towards the end of the table
the old car that stopped working
the tools and the cattle that don't milk
it eats these things slowly
so that they feel their end
they know it
and it is watched
as if it were happening elsewhere
the blood not boiling
as if the sky weren't about to crack