Quick Black Hole Spin-Change

Edward Sanders
I don't like it—

two massive Black Holes
each twirling at the core of 
                      two merging galaxies

get close enough
to fuse together

then quick as a wink
just as they are melting into a New Black Hole Blob

they undergo something called a "spin-flip"

they change the axes of their spins
and the fused-together Black Hole Blob
gets its own
          quick as a cricket's foot

Don't like it at all

And then the new Black Hole Blob sometimes
bounces back and forth inside
                              its mergèd Galaxy

till it settles at the center

but sometimes a "newly" up-sized Black Hole
leaves its Galaxy
to sail out munchingly on its own
                                 into the Universal It

I don't like it

Nothing about it
in the Bhagavad Gita
the Book of Revelation
Shakespeare, Sappho, or Allen Ginsberg

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Spine to Spin, Spoke to Speak

The pilot alone knows
That the plot is missing its
Eye.

Why isn't this "ominous science" 
   itself afraid, a frayed
Identity?

Pray, protagonist —
Prey to this series of staggered instants.

Here the optic 
Paints its hole, its self-consuming moment.
It is speech, dispelled, that 
   begs to begin to ache.

So that wind accelerates to wound, a dead sound
   enlivened by the visitation of owls.

As pallid as parallel, the cry
Of the negative is not the negative 
   of the cry — an irreparable blessing —

A green world's 
   "sibilant shadows" where
The syllables of your name are growing younger.

As involuntary as involuted, "who"   
   returns its noun 
   to each tender branch
That noon breaks into no one.

Point of view
Hovers, a circular cloud, over evacuated
Time.

That heard its herd bellow below
   the terraced cities, the milled millions

   as sold as unsouled, ghost-cargos. 

A symptom of the Maddening —
Woman undressed of her flesh. 
Man's address
   to Thou, & the flag of Thou.

How the fallen state
Meets the starry horizon, veil 
   against witness, hunger against void.

O, oldest 
   outermost Other —

Ageing mask 
Of the transparent Earth. Unspeculated
   image 
Streaked with mirror & stricken words.

You are neither the torn, nor the thorn.

You are the many-petalled
   melting point of repeating decimals. . .

Receiver, river
Has been burned into voice, a day-dark ribbon.
   
All signal is this 
Single.