-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 have 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 travel from one

inhalation to another without being torn apart knuckle-by-knuckle.

In closing, my black hole remains deeply internal, hesitant to return

anything other than myself,–– and I fear the next visit will kill me. but if not,

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