As the universe cools, antiprotons all annihilate with protons, giving photons. But for every 10⁹ photons thereby produced, there is one proton that survives, because it cannot find a mate to annihilate with.         
—The International Encyclopedia of Astronomy

how many stalks could the caustic sweep
burn out the middle from. a narrowing green

narrowing something like a mouth, hers blued
in that stunted hour it takes a body to resign, the host

held up and denied, rescinded, fell thick on the throated
all that heaving, thumbing the knotted tresses

too faulty for discussing the god in question.
I wanted something sick, a thick throat of pearls

her blued lips tipping up, all the things 
accruing in that dark scheduled to die

so did. each part unfixed and flit hard
away from her, like it was supposed to 

be anything but beautiful, like it was supposed
to be anything but dying. to think then

the pulpy mass hung impaled on the probe
inside him, needles’ tips cored in to curb

the unyielding division, the lucky one sought
and latched to its host, repeating. admit

all the bellies floating, all sod, strata through which
to comb and lift the sheathing bract, loosed

spoke the mouth. have you clots in that little heart?
inkblots? queer birds glut my horizon

which is not your horizon. see even
the scope un-stilling. gular sac filling. in its

hemorrhaging, the body mimics
the convulsion of most things, as this child

cloven, sucking at me in its spiritual margin
the last kicks twisting dark on its spine.