Sixteen feet square and twelve feet overhead, the Hole

confirmed all I'd suspected:

peering through, the machinations of the universe

proved to be held aloft by beams

smelling of cold petrification,

black light-absorbent goo leaking into night,

mucking over the starlight,

stealing signals from other worlds.

The Hole dumped quintessence,

thick with soil-brown wet organic goo,

into my driveway--

I was stupid enough

to walk through it barefoot,

itching my feet for days.

This explains a great deal.

I want to fix it.

I have a morbid fascination

for secrets, so while philosophers pine,

theologians argue, scientists prod,

bombs explode, words catch fire,

I'm going in--

jump in to rescue me

if I'm not back in a thousand years.

At least the stars should glow more brightly now.