Paused

derelict satellite—

Wandering night drags

the sleepless from bed to bed

looking for comfort,

 x

and the moon, aloof,

turns a pale, impassive face

toward pilgrims who

x

want destinations.

Their clocks don’t tick anymore.

Silent time just sulks.

 x

It will not be tugged

to another port and so

sits in its own ink,

 x

awaiting reasons

for its heart to pump again.

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