Black Holes of Forgotten Socks

The universe is shot through with holes. It’s hopscotch to keep from falling down one, or being sucked up into another. When young we yearned for a box of Acme Company portable and pliable black holes, the kind thrown in the path of a pursuing enemy as a trapdoor disappearing act drawn from the whistling madness of Looney Tunes. In there go the errant keys; the forgotten sock; erased phone numbers and the delightful detritus of childhood. In there go entire planets; in there goes the dust of ages; in there go plugs of Swiss; dough; three-hole-punch confetti; the strength of a sheepshank; the stillness in the eye of Ophelia or Katrina or Rita and their kin. In there goes the substance of things hoped for and the words that connect all our syllables into a score, a testimony, of unimaginable brilliance. In there escapes Man Mr. Nobody. It is the law of seven, law of three; it is the eight leaves, left; it is the triune. The hole is there because dogs tear at its skin or someone has shot it. It’s a fistful of papers, clutched to the chest in a driving wind, dashing into a library and with your dying breath stuffing your last leaves into the fold of some dusty tome warbling with invisible black holes. Do Re Mi Fa Sol La Si Do…

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