From Satellites

Dan Chiasson
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You have this big capacity, small speck:
barely there at all until
the sun detects your metal shell,
then only than a pinprick;

and yet you can predict the moment,
having already lived it,
lived through it, laughed it off,
we think our child will suffer forever.


If you can orbit the planet, why can’t you see
what makes the human heart happy?
Is it art or is it sex?
Or is it, as I suspect, just keeping going

from next thing to next thing
to next thing to next thing
to next to next to next to next
pulsating stupidly to outlast time?

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