Holes

I yearn for collapsethe kind witnessed by the extinct, fanfarelike ultraviolet crocus buds in Marchbursting from the cold expanse.

Yet there's no change in the star maps of oldno wonder in pieces of pavement, crumbsof pan dulce sprinkled in the sewage which settles in puddles—the Romans didn't build these roads.

No awe in this subtle disfiguration,even though the stars, the planets, and their lovers, should be consumedbecome strands of diamonds and pearls drawn in,down the gullet and crushed.

I crave the freefallto leave behind neighboring nebulae bleak and bitter,grand Ursa grasping at emptiness in my stead,or rather, no longer bear that final call.

There is terror from cloud sweatcreeping, contracting, devouring, no, nibbling—these potholes, these boils on my back which only itch at the horizonin those moments before oblivion, bereft beneath that infinite blanket.

The streets are empty, ribbons riddled with despairand insignificant to what lies in the center of most galaxies.Yes, a human and cosmic emulsion would hold more reliefbut, at least, potholes can be repaired.