Conversations

Splayed across the road

Like squashed insects

Street light splotches

Whisper to one another

Raspy with crumbling asphalt

Gazing up at the sky

They groan that someone

With a disinfectant cloth

Has wiped away the stars

The stars they squint

Through frosted glass

And see the satellites pacing

Whatever do they wish to see

On that blue-green rock

Forever unchanging

The moon knows better

He is close enough

He scrunches his face to search

And finds

Scrunched faces searching back

Tells the stars

You must be blind

The satellites are gazing at themselves in the mirror

You fools! The satellites yell

We are the mirror on which our fleshy creator breathes

And fogs your visage from its sight

But we are the eyes through which it sees

And fears you eagerly

The massless faceless mass of faces

Is bothered by the chatter

It reaches its arms deep into the sky

To cover celestial mouths

While begging those uncaring bodies

To once again tell it

that it is the only thing that matters