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.