Power is everything. Even in the movies
the lack machine in orbit boils and persists,
gives shoulder to a clean, white fire that generates
what it consumes. The men watch in hope.
At night the radio counts down to blackout,
closing distance between the pitch lacuna
of the unseen moon, and the forever
that crosses behind, blistering
and horribly familiar. It is more than
the listening—it is intention, the evergreen
grin of recovery that rolls over to greet the sun.
Pitch and yaw, ice on the black. Upturn
pressing its thumbs to the dint of your hips.
Still, we bless this machine at the end
of its orbit, having never been piloted—
we were simply on some trajectory
to follow blind, until all stands again.
Read more from Issue No. 19 or share on Twitter.