by Gideon Burton
A sepulcher of metal: slow descent
toward an underworld, entombed, unsure
how long how far how soon the air will vent,
the darkness close, as seconds, hours blur.
A rocket, launching through its scaffold tube
toward uncertain height: the stages jolt,
the fuselage is creaking; will this cube
survive the forces, keeping every bolt?
A lottery, six strangers huddled tight,
an intimacy minimal and safe,
until it dawns on you with primal fright
that nothing makes the other ones behave.
The Bible speaks of chariots and sky;
no word of elevators when you die.
image: flickr - f-l-e-x