Arcs of light etch into the leafy trans-metal canopy
There is deep space beyond this orbit's homely tug
Crew are silent, droids all
The picture windows eyeless, unlooking
Empty room after empty room
Creep ever onwards, kilometers round
No up, no down
Yet details emerge here and there
One room reveals Persian carpet, holo-fireplace
Flickering logs and Robert Adam mantle
Half-finished glass of port
Leaving a faint ring on the Thomas Chippendale
Years would pass before I finally meet
My gracious host
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