Once the Singing Starts
in the shower head, holes in the atmosphere, the black hungry
holes in blackness that turn everything
into inside-out spaghetti.
I wonder about their appetites
Space calls out. I don't know what it wants.
I can't be an astronaut. I'm not ______.
I'd answer, but I'd just be yelling
out the white window of my apartment
disturbing people below going out, going in.
Yelling at stones on fire, unheard
amidst the din of gas and gravity. Gas builds
in their ice throats, welling up.
They cry out because someday they will implode.
They've seen it all. They've seen it
through their pulsing sobbing. Other stars
are cracked in half, open. Once the swelling starts,
the singing starts, and their lungs out-grow their other parts.
Soon, they'll all be holes.