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The Problem Is

we’re all asleep

at different times

across the world.

To process dreams

we separately


a common tongue.

We cannot speak

while we’re awake

and distancing

each other’s needs.

We’re driven mad

by photons’ reach.

The Earth is far

too large to palm

from anywhere

except in space.

You see a theme?

We cannot save

ourselves until

we leave this place.

Let’s retrograde.

Let’s gravity.

Let’s synchronize

rotations, spin

together cramped

on mattresses

connected by

dark energy’s


In vastnesses,

the apogee

of loneliness

is alien


Thomas Mixon has poetry and fiction in Rabid Oak, Sweet Tree Review, SAND, and elsewhere.

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