this little port here will not yield to my wish
complain though I might, with a crackling plea
and the countless stars, blazing behind my back,
still and gelid watch, silent mitts on the screw
as I burn my air, helpless, witless, miles aloft
can this be my truth? (I put it to the door)
this girl whom I loved with her vacuum cold heart,
could deign to spurn me, where each breath is precious
while inside she sighs, quivering gulps of air
and not one desire to share from her rich tanks
Thursday 1 February 2024
032 - February 1 2024 - A Spacewalker's Lament
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