The plane turns at the edge of a city

(where true darkness begins - it is all
forest below; perhaps a few hikers
are sleeping against the sounds
of owl hoot and foraging bears)

and follows the curve of the river

(the undulating water in half-moon,
a paino keyboard calling to be heard
over the herd of TVs flickering
at the end of suburban cul-de-sacs)

as it rushes towards an airport

(a car's headlight nosing the mist
is as clear as a skylight towards
which a blinded eye looks, stopping,
sometimes at the curl of a rhyme)

where you are supposed to arrive.

(with a mind that is racing away like
that car next to the river, deep
into a wild beyond the hikers' sleep,
with a hunger greater than the bears)


Note: I could have easily titled this "After Tranströmer", as I wrote it falling out the sky last night, for the debt is there.


My Poems