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A DREAM OF INDUSTRY AND SACRIFICE
William Stephenson

A thirty-storey obsidian javelin stabbed the sun; 
    the office block across from Central Station.
I thought of the keystone of Kubrick’s 2001,
    the monolith orbiting Jupiter’s moon 
where Bowman’s eyes flashed like supernovas
    as he gasped, My god it’s full of stars.

Windows lit up, forming constellations.
    I floated clean through airlock panes
into a cathedral of revolving plastic thrones
    where priests typed symbols onto screens.
Holy mothership. Workplace of the aliens. The office.
    My god, I thought, first words reborn, it’s full of us.