The black hole from which nothing comes
and in which men slide like night deposits
opens now like a metal mouth for you,
bored and mechanical: still, rank absence,
whatever you call it, doesn’t affect at all
the daily flatness:. no one loses himself
for a moment in this immense impersonal orifice
because even dumbbells know what hurts
and the black hole, whatever you call it, hurts:
so life goes on quietly desperate, like a crazed
magnate constantly relishing the coldness of cash,
but no matter where you go you take up too much space.
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