Three Poems |
Day 7 They have assigned seats according to function & I am at the window for those who have irregular heartbeats, who can see their veins through the skin of their breastbone * The man who can juggle gets to sit by the ladder, the man whose job it is to die is by the hatch * Can you tell time? Command Station asks. I have to think about this for a minute or two. * The man whose job it is to die is slowly rising from his chair he is covered in yeast I wonder how he can breathe in there, I pause to consider turning into a loaf, slicing myself up. *
Out the window we are approaching Vega and I think about how satisfying it must be to shine constantly at 0
Standing on this side of the room, I can see the spot where I stood * & yes my eyelid is still over there *
A line of men with buckets on their heads can still feel their way to * Sometimes I can hear the neutrinos whispering directions to me in the re-circulated air. Sometimes I imagine I am one. [begin transmission]
when we find what you are looking for will you let us feel our bodies again Before you can pin a thing down -- I mean really hold its chin in your hands -- it's dead, or exploding. I've tried to explain this to them, I really have, but it's on and on with the instruments & the measurements & the log book & *
that day before we launched all that was left of a * on the other hand the day I will walk the redshifted light out of the black hole will be a day of utter dancing, of dead sprints, of gravitational cartwheels *
the latest from Command Station * I keep telling them my mouth doesn't feel quite right |
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