If I am good, perhaps I can fashion
my own afterlife.
No skin off Godparticle’s nose, I do all the work,
everyone is happy.
I would ken all spectra and wavelengths
through the scree of interplanetary dust,
navigate ping and thrum of the nebulae songs,
and pierce the darker stuff between
I would visit objects numbered, named, or not,
surf the clusters and,
with shield at ready,
meet head-on the pulsars’ and quasars’
Then, bright shining as a googol of suns,
I would set my course to the very center
and mindless enter the mind of God.