This afternoon, following a Red Riding Hood visit to a pneumonia enervated mother, I atteneded an event held in honour of the late John Forbes. Little can be recited on the screen stage, so a poem can answer whatever question you’re asking me now, at this time of night, you should be in bed and roaming through supernatural magic. Your sleep ducts should be shut and renewing their ability to feel a balanced blank, flickering with each thought.
Satellite of Love
by John Forbes
like unwound toys or the mind of a stone
verbs elude me. I’m willing to change tho’
— if you do too — into a spree or a better
more feeling computer. oh tent of dreams!
where is your tailored lightsail guiding us?
through what used to be the empyrean, but now
is just where satellites go, to stamp like
a giant foot, infotainment & game shows
into the brains beneath? death by stellar
allure or a lack of oxygen might follow,
unless this prayer can save me, the way
damaged glamour seeks out its opposite number
& we move together, draped in the planet’s
tingling aurora, thanks to our huge,
electric shoes.
