You travelled in a bullet until the heat
spiked your blood and panic curdled lungs.
Solid ground slipped into ocean, no waves
only millions of pins and a small rubber ball
suspended in the distance. You hurled
yourself toward the familiar shape, veins boiling.
Six hours of rattling teeth on metal, a great bear
roaring through the dimness.
It was in this new darkness that you collapsed,
a miniature sun: no longer dog but red giant.
Contrite, they printed your face on postage stamps
to orbit the world once more, forgetting
it was the earth you loved.
Final Hours, Sputnik 2
1 August 2017