The early morning sun would rise over
the dirty glass horizon, and hit
the rear-view mirror of that old red van.
Slip-sliding with ease through small empty hands,
dust and pollen danced like constellations
in orbit around our cockpit,
static and strangers filling
the silent void around us.
They spoke, but could not listen.
Ground control, do you copy?
We used to be astronauts, you and me,
captains aboard the Atlas Aerostar,
sailing towards eclipses long gone
while hands pressed into eyes
left stars in their wake,
silent scattered supernovas exploding.
Ground control, are you there?