All those G’s, though not as many as many think,
the cheeks rippling in waves, a like a deck of cards
flicked, the isotonic heart pushed into the back
of the cushioned chair, considering the heck with it all;
the outside metal red-hot, a fluid shell of consideration –
“should we explode?” The fear the angle is wrong, that the rocket
will bounce off the atmosphere, careen back into the void
with no more control than a pebble skimming the pond.
There is something, I grant you, in the landing, intensive heat
and free-falling, rockets stalling, and a peculiar acrid smell,
as if the devil’s devious hand wafts hell’s painful promise
across your nostrils, but the landing, in the end, is the easy part;
the difficulty is the decision to return; all star-men recognize
that taking flight, and remaining absent, is the easiest option.