Disappearing Into the Hollow

I only ever write beginnings
because I don't know how it
ends. I can't see over
that hill because the trees
are old growth and overdue for
a fire. The crackling would be
horrendous
and a generation of larks
wouldn't learn to fly.
The fire would bring new
plants but the old ones
probably won't give a shit,
casting charred, shrill looks
upon the new buds.
The new beginnings.
The ozone would catch the brunt
of the fire smoke like that huge mat
that catches pole vaulters each time
their vision turns
from ground to sky.
Deflating but not quite rebounding
all the way.

Some of the smoke particles would float out
into space, assuming an orbit
that takes them into the far reaches of
the cosmos, where trillions of crumbs are
gathering.
Sucked into a black hole,
crushed together into what scientists call a
singularity.

And then their knowledge stops.
They don't know if inside that dense abyss lies
a universe's graveyard,
bleak and without flowers,
as if the groundskeepers have been by
several nights after Memorial Day.
It could be the void like a canon fuse
disappearing into the hollow
of the launch tube before
propelling the artillery shell
skyward with a big
bang.

The thud reverberates between the houses,
the shockwave making itself known against my chest.
My favorite ones are the shimmering
fingerlings that slowly shower
down, blurring the line between night
and dream.
I've always wondered what happens
to the embers.