In the nearest blackhole lies

my grandfather’s final

lesson

 

his old words stretch apart

to form floating letters

which warp now

 

to form

my broken edge

english

 

i’m empty

of his memory

and i fill that space

 

with earthly dust

but as he would say –

in God’s universe

 

there are no

empty pages

only what is written

 

and so he wrote

to my father

on his final day

 

when the light

made a plan to escape

through his every crevice

 

don’t you sell them

the nomad’s dream

of life

Elsewhere.

 

But he did

sell us the red

vision of mars

when the world

started to melt

 

but in fairness

it wasn’t my father’s fault

that one day

gravity ceased to exist

 

and all solid things

started to float

and when they ask me

 

how can you be ungrateful

for this young

pure oxygen?

 

I tell them

it is not me who speaks,

it is my grandfather’s

 

atoms protesting

through me

saying

we did not inherent

this thin & flattened earth