Flight 372
when we glance down at the houses and
stores and stadiums and realize that we
are simply microcosms under a cloudy-foam ocean.
It is better when the strato cumulus clouds carpet
our flight and we can be
angels, wincing in the sunlight
and shielding our eyes, pretending that
God does exist and Icarus
rides with us, as ice crystals line
our windows and our ears burst
with an invisible roar of sound.
But cirrus wisps above us and the mountains
loom around us until, with a dizzying sigh,
the seatbelt light flashes on and we begin our
descent.
Icarus was but a myth--
We are the fallen angels.