A lopsided descent
toward an iced lake; no,
a white city; no, a collection
of lines, machinery, rock.
How is it that airplanes work
in their turning
of me, always, into
a trader of harmless lies?
Yes. Yes. Thank you. Yes.
In a passed over building
a friend wakes without
knowing I am right
now thousands of feet
above him, wakes
without thoughts
of me at all, in this
I find comfort.