Something sliding down the tree. A rat or the moon.
No ursae, no heroes left up there. The sky is unnavigable.
Of the few stars, you suspect a few are satellites,
snapping photos, triangulating in soundlessness.
Resist imagining adorable aluminum insectoids
endlessly skimming the outer atmosphere,
plaintively beeping. Not everything is cute.
Not everything is something you can love.
But the universe is colder now.
The exploratory probe exiting the solar system
feels nothing. It proceeds into the long pan
and does not mourn astrology.