Greg Wrenn

Homeworld

                         You were my crib;then my cellar cell, whose overhead            door I banged on night                            and day to wake you; then my grave—           but no, you weren’t a coffin                               exactly. I was in—               suspended animation. Inside an escape pod.            Nightly your computer took a breath for me.                         26,000 years later,     as the hatch blew open, I rubbed  

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