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We have no radio
We have no radio to show us where the rocket goes to die.
Chopin prions fold destructive waltzes from the yellow lines in our minds.
A pianist’s sadist prestidigit teases past our visceral countdowns.
Waiting becomes the most flavorful reality
As the liftoff slips nearly unnoticed through scherzos ripped in our flesh.
Music rumbles dark chocolate on our tongues
Shuttling us home empty-handed, mission complete,
Nothing left but smoke, poetry, and souvenir shops.
