Under normal conditions our solar
system binds, but a string of holes
suggests dense shells pierced
the Milky Way. Light refuses to mark
these scars so new to telescopes
and physicists. They haven’t yet
been named by lyricists nor
compared to wailing mouths.
One reminds me of a wreath
where buds refuse to grow. Life
refuses to swell like steam from
its warm bowl. A seam between
each hole reminds me of caution
tape, like the hem of a dress
extracted from glass (I cannot
describe the aftermath). What happens
when bodies collide in space? How
few hide in a narrow hallway?
How many in a closet? If “A” lies
outside and “B” lies on the floor,
how many targets? The answer
key waits on the final page,
where we learn what happens
to our young, our heavens.