-problems with my black hole-

Its existence was deduced as near certainty.

that in itself was close enough to have sucked me in.

now it appears they've got art in glorious color.

It’s through my fault, the opening of its door

when I should have been dreaming with the rest of the saints.

but I recall my visits in vivid detail, and once inside

I snoop around like any nosey neighbor, or common poem-writer,

lingering on occasion without much concern for the outside universe.

sea cucumbers live like this, and strains in protozoa, too.

my black hole isn’t working as prescribed, as I'm pushed aside

without being torn apart knuckle-by-knuckle, and further, there isn’t

a repair shop around the corner specializing in the mechanics

of catastrophic gravitational collapse.

––but my black hole remains deeply internal, hesitant to return anything

other than myself,–– and I fear the next visit will kill me, but if so,

what satisfaction will I have when I'm finally told the answer?