Ace of spades,
blotch of pitch
small as a pencil eraser,
the borders twitch
like a pine snake going to earth
waiting to emerge in the back of your eye
or the soft folds of your groin.
Filled with sooty grains,
black missles aim at the distant stars,
and I’m trying to cut out the first rogue cluster
taking 5 millimeter healthy margins from the base of your neck.
And now it’s in the speciman jar
I look into the black hole,
pull the walls together with nylon sutures
and hope you’ll live
the requisite years of an ordinary life
before the dark motes
float to the far ends of the universe,
the small cells of annihilation.