Speak like a singularity, a lack
residing deep inside every lock, just
past the point keys can jab: against all thrust
make safe-ensure your door's core is held back,
for reckless access to that pure center
quarks more quintessence than taking exits
from those pried voids whose secret quickly sates:
ubiquitous if Space presses Enter.
Which inadmissible sill still calls loud
with imagine: our skeleton keeping
each such portal neither open nor shut,
unhoused of that exclusive dustborne cloud
we breathe, though there must be something
it accumulates, accommodates: what?