"Arrokoth
Insomnia shoots
across the roof
like an already dead star,
and I keep thinking
how the farthest object
ever visited looks
like a crippled foetus—
a stillborn dream.
It means sky
in an extinct language,
just like her name,
now bleeding into
my fallen future
buried with my youngest
when the evening air strikes
started tearing the sunset—
so innocently pink
that I wanted to rock
the sky
in my empty arms."
—@lenaozge.bsky.social in cataloguing poetry magazine
"breakfast and move things" —@j-tkelly.bsky.social via @jordandavis.bsky.social


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