Surfing

Some people fall into a sly black hole.
I surf the net, find young good-looking men
I knew years back, now bald and gross, and some
others there were, I cannot find at all.

Some names are quite unusual; though I spell
them right, there’s no response; they’re either dead
or stunned by beer and pills, or lost abroad;
and some I’ve quite forgotten. Just as well.

I count them out, those who were young with me.
There’s the night sky, now slowly turning grey,
some few bright stars still burn at break of day;
behind them, multitudes that you can’t see.

I type my own name in the flattened square;
a hundred thousand references appear.