Wheels Spin Black Holes (poem)

Wheels Spin Black Holes

on the highway to Wild Horse Mountain*. at the bottom is a forest. trees arranged in neat rows, trimmed to congruence. except for a discordant clearing with a couch in the middle^. we hike up the mountain to get a better look at the highway†. then drive home. talking over Dad’s podcast‡ the whole way. until we end up jammed in traffic even though it’s a Sunday. cars lined up on the exit ramp, indicators glistering like fireflies♥. the podcast ends and i plug my earphones.

suburbia: the braised land disappears behind us, flattens out into oblivion. like the unread books on my bedside table♦. like the endless loop of Downloading. classic after classic and reading none of them. i’m still wondering if this♣ all bloomed from a little oblivion. along with the mould that festers in all my unwashed goggles. i keep them buried in a pile of shadows, damp with the feelings that bloomed¶ from the black hole of an ending. how to describe it? like seeing someone else driving your car in an affluent suburb. like passing your apartment building and not knowing which window is yours.

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*named after the wild brumbies that used to roam the area.

^ like a little oblivion.

† what else is there to look at?

‡ in circles. spinning black holes of memorised conversations.

♥ not that i'd know. we don't get fireflies around here.

♦ i don't have a bedside table.

♣ Dad’s redundancy, the termination of our swimming club, the implosion of my youth, etc.

¶ like the weeds in our backyard.