The Opening Line

Something
punctures the center
of the surface,
but of what isn't the surface
for long,

like a ball
bending space with gravity
in an unseen dimension,
matter leaking towards the intersection,
the point of reference
that allows it all
to be seen through.

Punctuated
by an exclamation point,
a lofty claim,
or a dusty feeling
opened with rusty hinges,

it neither traps
nor sets the trap
but announces
the bait that warns
of what will get you.

It alone
will tell you
to call it out,

for the eye that passes
politely over the guts

will decide to avert
when what began as whole,
now thoroughly chewed,
passes.