I guess I’m just in a poetry-posting mood. Here’s another one, less esoteric, more serious. Also, here‘s the poem it’s based on.
Song of Astronaut
By Nick Edinger
For seven hours, I float in burnt-steak smell
Because the tear in our solar array
Cuts power to our station. While I dwell
In space, my hands the supreme tools, I stay
Between Man’s built outpost and given world.
With foot attached to metal arm, I whirl.
The Pacific engulfs the planet whole.
Australia, California are like
The fingers on a great blue ball that bowls
Through the cosmos. The little men, their Reichs,
They cannot leave that spin with all their spite.
“We should focus on earth,” they all recite.
I turn myself, a world in a suit,
To fix again what gives this station life.
These panels, tapestries in a mosque, loot
From the sun’s core, cut her up with a knife
So her blood can course through electric gold.
This tool of man is equal to behold.
And still, I find my eyes drifting to earth,
Where nature, like advanced machines, rolls on
To fight the infection of man. Our worth
We proved when we turned all the world our pawn
In pitiful battles of countries flawed.
Was this ev’n in imaginings of Gods?
But why be king of all chaos down there
When I can focus on this honeycomb
Of a snagged circuitry and fix with care?
With last stabilizer, I turn from home
And place the hardware down in now-filled gap.
From my earpiece, I hear my partners clap.
Like boastful Sisyphus, I bask in the
Relaxed muscles: a job well done. Ocean
Beneath is packed like bedsheet over fleas,
Which I can’t reach without forward motion.
I live between my dreams and planet’s skin.
The arm, attached to me by foot, draws in.