I have a belly
full of ink —
penultimate nausea.
I swallowed something
through my eyes, I think.
The tensions between
constellations
arrayed my retinas’
red antennas
with star starts.
Now they are
lumps in my core,
bloated black holes
trying to swallow
indigestible quasars.
My body does not
disagree with the cosmos.
Everything that disagrees
with everything
in space-time,
in eternity,
in our busy rumbling bubble
of human vanity
swirls and sinks
here in my gut,
fighting it out.