At home in your exposome,
Autonoetic genome—
What did the writer call it,
Mistaking those curlicues
And flourishes for a poem?
Awareness tied to a cord,
Astronaut on a spacewalk,
Buffeted by cosmic rays
And breath in captivity,
How can you even be sure
Which ill-health effects
Are down to low gravity?
You’re light-headed. You’re half dead.
Time to float off to descend.
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