derelict satellite—

Wandering night drags

the sleepless from bed to bed

looking for comfort,


and the moon, aloof,

turns a pale, impassive face

toward pilgrims who


want destinations.

Their clocks don’t tick anymore.

Silent time just sulks.


It will not be tugged

to another port and so

sits in its own ink,


awaiting reasons

for its heart to pump again.

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