Starlink

Blisteringly fast and online in minutes. . . .

What hasn’t changed? Perhaps the November

shape of the school bus, its outline brighter

as leaves turn brown, or the stop sign, octagonal,

its command for safety through mutual conformity

nearly unchanged. And there’s the rim between 

darkness and sunrise blurred by a frost, or words, 

almost identical, passed from parent to child. 

And what about buttons fitted to holes

and hooks latched onto eyes? Or old data,

old light, beamed from the stars, expired,

flowing through eons? And people, too trusting, 

still can’t imagine the urge of the rich to snatch

what we hold in common—oceans, wilderness,

sky—our losses feeding wealth’s luminescence.