I often ponder where they’ll send me next -
in my next incarnation, that’s to say.
Will they shoot me into that starry text
light centuries beyond the Milky Way
to help some new cerebral-cortexed race,
or consign me once more to Mother Earth?
And what shall be the contours of my face,
the precise coordinates of my birth?
Will I have these selfsame eyes and nose?
And whom will I be predestined to love?
Will she spring from Dodona, or out of a hose?
Will we blend or part when push comes to shove?
Yes, the afterlife may seem like pure conceit.
But somewhere, as something else, we’re bound to repeat.