In
that 
moment
there was
only the single
pinprick of white-
hot endless nothing.
It became my everything.
It became the vantage point.
The precise angle at which I will see
 the world from now on is shifted slightly
by this irrevocable thing, a sharp gutting ache
that stabs me through, pinned like a moth or a tiny
Jesus Christ. Well, then, how many angels are dancing
 on the head of that pin? I found out. As many as a bottle full
 of prescription pills, white impulses. We are tiptoeing around it.
We are not saying the words you want to hear. We are still wavering
on the sharp edge of a steep irreversible decline. My life, my fucking life,
reduced to a memory hazed by a burning in the heart. My eyes were shut,
they still are. Never saw the sirens pouring a blue-cold light, the neighborhood 
witnessing a suburban tragedy. And in the glimpses when I could open them, my eyes
held pupils that expanded to suck the universe into the size of a coin, into this singularity
as exact as the pen-tip from which I bleed still frames and fragments forever. This is forever.