I will remember none of this voyage:
no great skies trying to be continents,
no immemorial patience of these wings
or curving graceful eggshell of the fuselage--
no joy at the lifting of
these unexpected ribs.
Only uncomfortable, eternal armchairs
and the smiles of automatons.
(Because what else is travel than
the displacement of biology
from our own unbroken minds?
the nervous nerveless yearning
that pulls our bodies from the void
until our souls emerge:
unchanged and yet
to our eyes
brand new.)
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1 comment:
I really like the first stanza, the way you describe the plane, and the way the title is part of the poem.
but I don't know if the second stanza fits with the first. To me it could be its own seperate poem.
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