Descent
This is a poem about suspending disbelief
At thirty two thousand feet,
the lights are phosphorescence glimmering in
dark swells.
One imagines a languid finger
trailing through this,
black obliteration in its wake.
Then down through wisps of wraith-like cloud,
a harsher drone and slow nodding recognition
of something on the ground
more like lace, the knots and threads of humankind,
here and there a brighter light
but all small and insignificant.
Then below,
a man waiting at a street corner
lifts languid eyes at something
resounding through the heavens
to see a flickering light
like one that shone two thousand years ago,
small and insignificant,
the passage of both an exercise of faith.
the lights are phosphorescence glimmering in
dark swells.
One imagines a languid finger
trailing through this,
black obliteration in its wake.
Then down through wisps of wraith-like cloud,
a harsher drone and slow nodding recognition
of something on the ground
more like lace, the knots and threads of humankind,
here and there a brighter light
but all small and insignificant.
Then below,
a man waiting at a street corner
lifts languid eyes at something
resounding through the heavens
to see a flickering light
like one that shone two thousand years ago,
small and insignificant,
the passage of both an exercise of faith.
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