Size / / /
I have to admit,
this poem is not about swans
or visiting the plot
where my father is buried.
In fact, he's still alive.
I said that so you
would read this:
there are no
such things as swans
or graves or fathers.
Only flight. Put down this poem,
see it now: the black hole
stretching like a mouth,
taking in houses, oceans,
planets. Open your eyes,
quicken past moons,
novas, nebulae, dying
suns. Let the vacuum
swallow you until
the surrounding light curves
so far into itself you see
the back of your body.