Chris Tse


In his dreams
               the mouth of night
is mute      from a year of troubled star-gazing

terrified and unwilling         to explain
the idea of         tomorrow
         to a boy      averse to propulsion.


No news from the control centre
regarding signs of new life. (The adoring astronomer
                     disarmed by scientific intent.)

This is the twenty-first century: surely we have
the technology to instil hope      or at the very least
         encourage us to believe in the idea of hope.


He holds his breath     and thinks dangerous
thoughts      of lightning     shooting skywards
         from his eyes.

Each blunt day brings     another reason to pray
         or hours spent hanging on
stars that never return         his attention.


Gravity, orbits:
                  unforgiving attraction
to the things that draw us near but never reach out.

Still no news.      These slow days
               draw out      with marbled static
and a distinct lack         of interest.

Author’s Note


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