Flight
In my fevered dream
and approach
thirty seven thousand feet over
Vladivostok, chasing high
noon all the way
from Newark, New Jersey, even
from farther back, still
hurtling through
the crumbling cage and rusty reach
of the Pulaski Skyway
strung out over swamp
drained dry and sad abandoned industry,
i think of you.
You are the long wait away.
The enemy. The air outside now
would cauterise your
wound instantly. Stem your blood
shot. Stop your mouth. Shut
down your heart. Every
bump, tremor, jerk
and shake i feel
as if it was only
just. Because of
you. I picture you not
at the gate where
baggage search
in circles to be
claimed. But in your
room where i make you out in
tangles in the heat
of distance compressed in an
instant of time accelerating
to a stopped breath. A tension to
a line. "Any closer
and we'd be fucking."
Split open
in a giggle. The easing
of the body spread. The ticking
over of the mind. Fever breaking.
I don't want to be held in your hole anymore.
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