Another Hole For W.R Rodgers

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?