We rifled through our pockets for stuff
we wouldn't miss
to toss into the void.
Tilly threw a Costa till receipt
wrapped round a 2p piece for heft.
When it hit the purling vortex
it went off like a flashbang;
we were left staring at a photo negative
of her outstretched arm
for minutes, giggling
at our newfound blindness
and that lingering instant.
Leonard threw on a conker
that evaporated in a tickle of larksong;
Uncle Craig flung in his trilby
then realised too late
his cashcard was tucked inside.
'Oh fuck!' he cried,
watching it buckle in on itself like a souffle
before sloughing apart.
Something in that moment caught me.
I was unzipping my flies;
my trousers hit the void and smashed
into a hundred and fifty creamy moths;
Tilly's bra detonated like the far-off
crump of ordnance;
turned the air thick with incense;
we threw everything
into that sucking mouth
so black it shone,
it filled us.