Saturday, 4 March 2017

space poem #4

If the rocket held enough fuel, 
if my clumsy fingers
knew the order of buttons to push, 
if the spacesuit  was airtight 
and through the great thrust I could be free,
my eyes might sometimes look behind me 
but the reality
would always be the future hanging before me,
one lurching step,
one free-floating fall, 
one anchored line at a time.

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