Always your face like a space 
(Destination: beautiful) ship 
Empties its mote of closeup trace 
Down screens that blink blank blip 

Somewhere between countdown 
And coma time is a line 
Where waking centuries often 
Drained against that measure we find 

Our blood redshifts (direction: west) 
Until film can clone one sun 
With stars both whole and gone 

Attending every sequel 
We pray for an intent equal 
To our interest