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.