For Gwen Head
A little bit of the body at morning is
Poison; a lot
Of the mind is ether. Lying there
Level between them
Is difficult, anxious as fuel
In a dory tank on the ocean.
Inviting as the blue water looked
Out the guest-bed window
On a day of enfolding visibility,
I questioned my hostess
About the dawn ghosts that filled the room
And me. Never,
She said, was she afraid in day.
But she could tell me
In her automated kitchen what
Shook her once:
The stovepipe fan big as a ship’s funnel
Sucked up all the gas
And threw a fireball to the autumn woods.
Was it fire
Or fumes that scared her most? Now
The pokey electric range
Takes us in a teacup slowly into morning,
Pilotless.
But, friend, I’ve turned myself quickly
Out of bed ever since.
For leaving your place J saw a huge and tangled
Shiny thing hauled
Gingerly down the interstate. It was not
Yet self-lifting. Heart
Of an enormous plane, it took its own
Company exit.
Not like its sistership
Whose finished body disappeared
Above the long paved field, beyond
The speed of the voice
Where it’s calm, this still bumped
Chattering along.
It was just going through that time
In its life when a jet engine
Rides the bed of a truck—
Closer to the ground
Than it must ever be again for people.
Leave a Reply