Voyager

We've packed our bags, we're set to fly

no one knows where, the maps won't do.

We're crossing the ocean's nihilistic blue

with an unborn infant's opal eye.

It has the clarity of earth and sky

seen from a spacecraft, once removed,

as through an amniotic lens, that groove-

lessness of space, the last star by.

We have set out to live and die

into the interstices of a new

nowhere to be or be returning to

(a little like an infant's airborne cry).

We've set our sights on nothing left to lose

and made of loss itself a lullaby.