None of these rockets died a peaceful death
In their beds, or keeling over whilst gardening.
They all died in flames, blood boiling on their shells.
How could their ghosts be anything but grim?
Angry, sharp-edged spirits, resentfully there.
'We went to heaven before we died,' they say.
'And all the way up: there's nothing there.
We want our afterlife down on the deck.'
These jigsaw ghosts, the disassembled ones.