Night Flight

The sky contains us. 

The black syrup 

stirred with stars

is thick enough 

to be lost in, 

to be held. 

Immune to gravity, 

our fragile hand 

holds the plane high 

enough to kiss 

the idea of orbit.  We are

skimming along the stratosphere  We are 

scratching the glass globe 

that holds the world. 

Meteors are mere sparks 

where the metal skips 

along the surface. The stone goes

stuttering the mirror.  Its blackness 

reflects everything: 

a newborn's eyes, 

the worker's hands, a widow’s 

satin robe falling open, 

the sky, the night, the sea. 

The nothingness is 

warm and breathing. There are 

cool winds surrounding us.

They will encircle us 

like billowing silks—teal and smoke 

and aqua—the elements

in which we are suspended.  

We are free 

(to fall) and yet, 

somehow—be it science, be it God—we are 

fearless.  Filled with faith, we are

brave.  We are sure of our place, 

certain of the world. 

The only danger is our doubt. 

On the other side of morning, after 

the indigo ink has gone green

(a glowing emerald) a faceted jewel 

will first be, overwhelmed.  The church 

windows blown out from the inside

are now shattered.  Pure shards 

of gold, unbearable.  The silver tongues

of engine and ray.  Soon

this plane will settle

lazily onto the summer tarmac,

another land, another literature, another

language.  There 

none of this 

seems so extraordinary. 

Of course, there will be

the hullabaloo of baggage 

claim, the gregarious morning.

The braying  

horns must stretch

out of the hungry taxis,

stalled, the fumes, 

the vapors.   Back on earth,

there is only 

the business of life, and of living,   

It can’t be helped.

Anticipation gropes along,

feeling its way.  Waiting itself, by nature

and by definition

feels like no one coming. 

Neglecting the past, unnerved

by possibilities, for now

this sloop is sailing 

silently 

into the east, still dark,  a sky 

still studded 

with these waiting wishes. It is propelled by dreams.