One Million Solar Masses
Crows, murderous and coughing, leave the evening wire meeting with an arrhythmic beating no body could contain.
I forget the slow work of machines until a mole turns over some dirt, miniature and persistent in its quiet destruction.
There are volcanoes in the sidewalk, and ants bursting from them—less ignorant than defiant of what tries to pave over old homes.
The pigeons rise, too, before the image of their sitting can stay, and I know they also wonder about the mess they’ll leave behind.
A cat in the parking lot arches and prickles its spine in reverent fear of a post-midnight shade, crying under a curtain too heavy to open.
If you told me of the singularity between us, all of us, I’d say something about the dead stars we can’t see in these, our most hungry hours.
About the Poet:
Bobby Bolt is pursuing an MFA at Texas State University. His work appears in Route 7 Review, Bindweed, Rappahannock Review, Sink Hollow, Runestone, Pretty Owl Poetry and Lincoln Land Review.
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