Sunday, June 25, 2017


Eliza Victoria

Maybe we should stop moving
for a second and sit down here
where the grass is soft like dawn
and the mist touches us
and doesn't
like light-years.
Look up: we are recipients
of false-color images, of lights
long gone.
Every second, something vanishes
out of reach.
Come now, sit here
by me. Let us recite
the names of the nearest stars –
Proxima Centauri, Lalande,
Sirius, Luyten –
the way we list the games
of our childhood.
You're so far
away that I see you still.
Imagine a farewell
that takes a hundred years
to reach you, disguising itself
as brightness.

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