Now the night sky has cleared a dying star flares

momentarily near the horizon,

and, above, Ptolemy’s Constellations –

Andromeda, Perseus, Pegasus,

Cassiopeia. Far below are twelve

of Elon Musk’s satellites in, as it were,

apostolic succession, nose to tail,

like any old circus act: transmitting

images of working class white men and youths

setting hostels and libraries aflame,

bellowing with hateful self-righteousness,

close-cropped heads contorted with bigotry;

images of their masters’ talking heads, coiffured

and smirking, inventing conspiracies

as tenuous as constellations; others,

paid to govern, serious and spruce,

with explanations as misleading

as any astral story; and those

who know racism when they see it,

and say so – and who have always known

that pieces of debris burning out

across the silent sky portend nothing.