Some part of you survived

the hypervelocity of impact

and the pulverized satellite

in the realm of many sunrises.

Adrift in a graveyard orbit

of dead stations, corpses

of collisions, booster rockets

and all their slag and dust.

Strange flashes of radiation

zip through your ghost eyes

on this frenzied carousel

hurtling round Earth.

You wonder if radar will pick

you up as a spectral shadow

or dark mass. An unexplained

phenomenon cataloged and

monitored in the wasteland flux

where blackness leans into the soul.

Or will the atmospheric drag

reclaim you as it did the astronaut's

glove, the tool bag that drifted out

of reach, and Roddenberry's ashes.

A comet, a fireball, or vapor trail

in the sonic boom of annihilation.