Connecting Flight
by Michael J. Vaughn
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Speaking the flavors of geometry
I am one of those matterless points in space
lofted like a sand wedge
over the American continent
The course of my drift is a triangle
my y axis a stone dropped from the nose of this plane
The third point is you
constant star on my western horizon
We shed degrees with each mile and yet
our hypotenuse remains solid, six feet wide
harvesting gravity
Look closer and you find
silk tethers taffy-pulled from the points where
my skin has touched yours
a Persian weave of sugary lace
two thousand miles and skyborne
We pierce this
field of clouds
Settling to the ground
Drawing the curtain
on a wide, wide country
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