Far Out
Paint your piece of the view. Ten viewports drift past the glass between here and the dawn star. Every sight is a wall painted by a small crew, one piece each, one view held together.
The Comet Ferry
out in the dark deep violet space streaked with the long bright tail of a comet crossing the dark, faint stars behind.
through the glass the comet fitted out as a ferry, rows of bench seats carved into the ice, passengers of every kind bundled against the sparkle, a conductor with a lantern walking the aisle on magnetic boots.
at the rail one small passenger in close view holding a ticket that flutters in the solar wind, mittens too big, eyes enormous.
The Moon Laundromat
out in the dark a cratered moonscape under a huge slow earth, powder gray hills rolling to the horizon.
through the glass a laundry line strung between two crater rims with space suits of every size pinned out to dry, a washer drum built into a crater, soap bubbles floating up and never popping.
at the rail one small suit up close still dripping starlight, a clothespin straining, a bucket of glowing wash water.
The Star Nursery
out in the dark a dim violet cloud chamber where unborn stars glow like coals in the mist, rows fading into the dark.
through the glass tiny stars in glass incubators on brass stands, each swaddled in cloud, a night nurse in a quilted coat checking temperatures with a long thermometer, one incubator lid open.
at the rail the smallest star up close, just lit, reflected twice in the nurse's spectacles.
The Asteroid Diner
out in the dark a tumbling asteroid field in warm and cold light, one big rock leveled flat on top.
through the glass a chrome diner bolted to the rock with a curved counter glowing warm through the window, freight rockets parked at angles outside, a cook flipping something that drifts up slow and lands perfect.
at the rail a mug of cocoa up close with the steam curling into a tiny galaxy, a doughnut orbiting it once.
The Nebula Painters
out in the dark a half finished nebula, one side blazing rose and gold, the other side still bare dark scaffolded with faint lines.
through the glass a work crew on floating platforms rolling color onto the clouds with long rollers, buckets of pigment light tethered to their belts, a foreman squinting at a paint chart.
at the rail one roller up close mid stroke where gray cloud turns to glowing rose, drips of light falling upward.
The Satellite Choir
out in the dark a quiet band of orbit over a sleeping blue planet, the terminator line soft below.
through the glass a choir of old satellites gathered in formation, dishes tilted together like open mouths, solar panels raised like hymn books, a conductor probe waving a stylus, signal lines drawn faint between them.
at the rail the oldest satellite up close, dented and patched, one bolt loose, singing hardest of all.
The Lost and Found Office
out in the dark the calm swirl of a gentle black hole far off, everything around it leaning slightly toward it.
through the glass a long shelf station at the safe edge stacked with labeled bins of everything the universe misplaced, odd gloves, single socks, house keys, one umbrella, a clerk with many arms filing it all patiently.
at the rail a claim window up close with a small bell, a tag that dangles from one recovered teddy bear.
The Ring Road
out in the dark a giant striped gas planet filling the sky in cream and rust bands, serene and enormous.
through the glass its rings as a busy road, ice boulders lane by lane, small craft weaving between them, a toll gate at a gap in the rings with a sleepy attendant waving traffic through.
at the rail one commuter craft up close with luggage strapped to the roof and a plant on the dashboard leaning toward the planet light.
The Space Whale Migration
out in the dark open deep space crossed by a river of faint light, stars thick as plankton.
through the glass a pod of vast whales swimming the dark in a long line, hides mapped with constellations that actually glow, small tender fish craft swimming alongside, song lines rippling out ahead of them.
at the rail one great eye up close, calm and old, with a tiny escort craft reflected in it.
The Last Lighthouse
out in the dark the very edge of the charted dark, where the stars thin out to almost none and the black is soft as cloth.
through the glass a lighthouse standing on a small rock island in the void, its warm beam sweeping a slow circle, a keeper on the gallery rail with a thermos, moths of light circling the lamp room.
at the rail the keeper's logbook stand up close on the rail, pages held down by a shell from an ocean very far away.
Hatches lit. Crews mid painting, seats open at the glass.
