Remembering the Postmodern
Orbits decay.
Sinking spacejunk hots-up through upper atmospheres,
scrap metal
scattered over mortgaged acres.
In the ashes of the quiet town,
swans hang
gangling in the power lines.
If only someone would arrive
with a door to knock on, a sky less large.
We sit at breakfast,
reading news of things about to happen.
The hole in the roof sucks in the stars.
No comments:
Post a Comment