contrails trip out meaningless maps,

until the whole of night is brushed with

lines of gray. here beneath its arced curve

the world has stopped growing old, instead

only contracting, until the small tremors

of war and death spread out in widening

waves to all surface, all depth.

the men in the wide whale-boned carrier

cover immeasurable space. once in their

pressed browns and greens it might have

taken weeks or days to push forward this

mechanic chant. now hours pass, and when

the plane lands, it is still dark even here,

in this further part of the world.