Taken for granted: a plane:
thin, high, distant, silver.
Noticed, then forgotten, like a breath.
Or not noticed, part of an empty sky
over empty scurrying, or dull,
purposed, hungering endeavor.
Who thinks of the dreamers, drawers,
builders and early fliers?
Da Vinci, the Wrights, von Richtoven?
Who thinks of the mechanics,
the workers in factories,
the designers? The raw ore
and chemicals becoming
thin, high, distant, silver?
We think of the crash,
the yellow blossom
in the sky, on the ground,
unpetaling lives, shrapnel
in the hearts of the waiters,
imagined screams beating
like hammers in the forge of loss.
We think of the landing,
safe, smooth, tedious wait
to get off and on with
whatever we traveled to do.
Our bodies lie: it is all about us.
Their bodies lie: it is all about them.
Here, in a high, thin,
distant, silver object,
is all of it:
time, love, loss, dreams,
wonder and discovery -
and a useful thing made common.
Far away, a couple builds
a hut of leaves and branches.
An infant hangs from its mother,s neck
in a drab fat sack of the future.
|