For Jozborne
Bodies rotate puce and ruptured in the void.
Speaker stacks pump uselessly at nothing.
Instinctively, the spacesuited compere reaches
to grasp at a collar that is not there.
He taps the mic with a vacuum-sealed forefinger.
Is this thing on? he mouths
to an airless moonscape of spinning corpses,
and grins,
bodies orbiting like fireflies.
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