35,000 Feet

I have stumbled
along these rivers,
trying to turn
toward forgetfulness —
toward mindlessness.

But here the clouds
are a thousand
venus de milos,
some thousands of feet
below.

And always when
high above an earth
grown to abstract
curvature —
a thing to be caressed
to vision —
I am returned
to this blistered
reality of the page —
how I have neglected
and sickened again.

And there is no erasing
these words carved
in bone,
the always returning
to flight.

So I walk along rivers,
and I think I am forgetting,
and I think I am forgetting,
and I think I am
forgetting.
And growing mindless.

But even these thousand
miles away,
where the rivers are strange,
and the plants are strange,
and the horizons are strange,

I find myself stopping
to look up
and wonder if you
look up too, at this
low half moon morning.

Would that it were possible
to leap through this window
and hang
forever suspended
at 35,000 feet —

watching the venus
and all her paramours,
all the passing river
that passes for living —
and remain forever high,
abstracted, alone,
and untouched by it.

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About Emily

I may or may not have: A. Dirt B. Ink C. Paint D. Wool under my fingernails.

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