You count
the stars
through the
pocked view plate,
recite the
names
of all the
children in your
first-grade
class.
You whisper
a song
on the
observation deck
as you wipe
yourself
with an
antiseptic tissue
for the nth
time.
You see
faces from long ago,
ludicrously
remote
from
wherever the hell it is
you are
now.
Which face
was yours?
You hear
the sound
of a water
drop
impacting a
bulkhead,
monotonous
scratching
from the
communications
console.
You feel
something,
like the
dull thudding
of a human
heart,
the
interminable interval
between one
stroke
