I.
I'd promised to wave at St. Louis as I passed overhead,
so I crane as we zoom through the timeless twilight of morning
and waggle a few digits at the bright slick
poised at the confluence of Mississippi and Missouri Rivers.
Metallic, it undulates, an amoeba
with twinkling cilia tickling the dark waters.
Odd chunks of jewel intersect it at even intervals,
as if some sloppy god bred pond scum and gems,
and splattered them in a dank nook
to ferment, lovely, floating on nothing,
fed by the breeze blown by my dark hand above.
II.
How meta, I thought, to write the word turbulence
while the sky tossed this machine about its metal self.
Left hand to right, cirrus to nimbus to moonbeam
it juggles our lives and our luggage, with talent, admittedly.
Concurrent with prayer, I imagined I'd blaspheme
when foreseen malfunction came to pass,
when fuselage shattered, scattering roller-boards,
screaming, these fools and I, silent, into altitude.
I imagined regaining consciousness among debris, plummeting
below fiery Plieades, between jagged shrapnel and flaming hands waving.
How deftly I would glide, limbs spread, flannel aflutter,
towards some body of water, discerned from the land that cupped it.
How wisely I would blade my body, knife into the skin of the water–
solid at such speed– and sup of the sanguine splash my form lifts up.
III.
In this moment I notice my asshole,
clenched to preempt catastrophe,
my lungs squeezing stolen oxygen
across cheesecloth and into some mechanism
that transports it to aorta, which disperses
the stuff corporeally, as per usual.
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