No, not mass missing from our universe
craved by astronomers through telescopes,
neither throwing nor absorbing light. Worse.
It’s gravity at psyche’s essence, slope
hurtling me from sight of myself. It shrinks
existential dread to blood droplets, warps
Dante’s “Inferno” to Club Med. You think
I’m joking. Climb through my head. Take a sharp
left where flaming synapse glows
so bright red
it grows black, then deeper than black, then gone.
You’ve knelt here before, I know. I’ve watched, bled
with you till nothing was left. I’m the one
who saw you redeemed—visited, lifted
by a sudden light—praised you as gifted.
Roger Armbrust
March 11,
2014
