We travel in our body, a rocket
with velocity of 67,062 miles per hour,
feverishly adjusting dials, monitoring life support,
imagining in our fragile cockpit that—
—we are standing still in a wooded glade
while around us leaves drift down and
we say, Thank God for Dappled Things
and then walk on, pondering the impermanence of life
and the good smell of leaf mould.
Meteorlike, it hits us that we have course
corrections to make, and calculations
to double-check, and a crew, and
—but a brown bird whistles while we
shuffle through golden mounds.
Bounding deer startle us into
And all the time glowing numbers
track a steady countdown as our spaceship
continues its relentless journey
toward the center.