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.