Orboplette: Work Musings

broom across the comets tail remnants of the old revolution and now the list takes shape stars blink twice ship records while our harbors are dry digital database with sandpaper ships we scrape against ocean's edge sea salt settling amidst forgotten accounts our rhythms pulse with cosmic dust

touchpoints with the stars lighting maps scattered across desks the frequency we tune is less audible silence behind Saturn’s rings and every black coffee another galaxy imagined calling in constellations and the work never written just out of sight nebulous.