Trafika Europe 12 - French Bon-Bons
for J.T. in New York
A small cog in the spheres has slipped: here something’s changed—a black spark’s crossed the sky. Near you the envoy still awaits a sign, the port a ship. Planet Earth is blue, but where you are, it’s black— no green dot marks your profile pic. You sleep there in a world apart, where, luckily, you don’t yet know a thing, even when mid-night you wake: someone flings a crate of bread down on the bakery stoop, or a couple drives back from dinner in Queens, and no one in the land where you still dream knows Major Tom’s alive there six hours more.
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