This fluid no glass or bottle can hold, cannot be contained:
Easily eats its way through matter
with a larger volume than the visible universe.
Sixteen times more to it than the alleged real world.
Most of the universe is bound to the orbit of what
we can’t find with our limited senses but suspect
whatever it is by the orbit of the solar system,
wobbling tracks of starlight, interrupted by a strange grip impossible to resist.
This man never gets angry, is always calm.
An argument flares, the baby screams, someone shoves someone.
He remains silent, concentrates and looks within.
First the furniture begins sliding; a chair tips, the T.V. falls, the couch rolls,
all the plates and glasses
crash and fall into the great void opening beneath them.
His face wears a gentle smile, serene.
Eventually all the people in the room lose their balance,
Pulled into his gravity, so dense not even light escapes,
a collapsed white sun at his core.
He is black matter; sucks up all the air and light, even sound waves.
He finishes his glass of wine, finds his coat and goes home.
I was at that dinner party. I recall the feeling of being stretched
thinner than a fingernail. None of the other guests
remembered, but did suffer almost unbearable hangovers, headaches,
some distrust, uncertainty, a strong aversion to vacuums and light bulbs.
We are, all of us, slaves of gravity. In defiance we dance
and leap as though lighter than air.
Invite flight, walk the tightrope, flap useless wings.
The iron lung of fundamental forces keeps us crawling on.
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