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2. space debris and other silent splinters

On its way, the moon drifted among

                                        SPACE DEBRIS AND OTHER SILENT SPLINTERS

Olfactory memory is always the last to wilt

it’s just that this time,
we could smell the pyrite through our optic nerves.

Nautical smoke flares descend on the salt-cured flesh of Piraeus

                                                                               smoke between our words
                                                                               ash between our gestures;

mothers, and their mothers

loop genes, stories loop marigold necklaces, hymns loop time residue, echoes loop

dusk-choked memories of

an edge-less, loss-less mourning. 

Residual haunting                                             

                                                                                           like silent splinters
                                                                          in the universe’s strange flesh.

We could just about outline the edges of the sharp, glistening objects
through the hazy red;

space ships, satellites and what escaped them

drift in the graveyard orbit 
        her ‘womb of things to be and tomb of things that were’ *

forced to re-enter the atmosphere,
they perish into compressed gas.

Ever-migrating dust

settles deep into our porous brain matter

and we are somehow caught in a fantastic surge of glitter and rot.

* ‘The Carrier Bag Theory of Fiction’ by Ursula Le Guin