flight path

radial world, innumerable edges-

none at all.

we sit beneath the flight path, hot

summer-song highway

and the endlessness of going,

returning, rushing, mirror

below the airplanes banking out

over invisible currents,

the air around us as living as

any sea, each angle of

weather bringing another piece of

everywhere

you have your scar, the white-stretched one

down your left leg that no one sees

and you don't wear green if you can

help it

and when you have your nightmares,

the airplanes help you surface

along the necessity of living,

how nothing much changes:

all constant connection

between here and the circumference of existence.

and you are drinking beer, halfway

to warming, still acceptable-

all the bridges of the world have brought

us to this moment, surrounded by noise

and motion.