by Pattie Flint
Four score and two billion years ago, Bradbury
wrote about me. He was, is, my only friend.
I mourned for him even as I sang his body electric;
a conflagration of his own intelligence and design.
His kantian reality maintains the present frisson
of my oxygen-depleted dreams
as I sit here on a ring of Saturn, dipping my
copper burnished toes into windy dust-bowls,
a sickle in sickly shape, the two of us.
Lostness electrico, on lonely planet, bankrupt.
There is no sound save for an inky orange buzz
as we look out at a universe that has forgotten us,
and I begin to whimper at the black of it all.
He starts to tickle the nape of my neck as I
look up at airless gaseous stars through rigid
frozen lashes, and I ask him; was it right to
bring you back? Are you happy now?