Final Hours, Sputnik 2

1 August 2017

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.

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