I am slouched against the plane's window, cold head wasted from daytime numbers. The ice night passes below. I will hang my coat. I will drink the free wine. I will imagine I am different than this. I turn off the overhead light and in the blue black feel the air of the earth rush under my feet. There is a woman knitting. Across the aisle a man with a paper stares at one word for twenty minutes. It is silent except for the engines which are a 1972 Ford LTD late Saturday night driving me and my mother, fog sleep descending on us. A stewardess arrives and lifts me, tiny and curled, whispering home. She carries me in her arms to the rim of the plane. Cities spread forward, dots of white and orange, blinking. In between them, like gravity, blackness. Goodnight she says. I look up at her and and shake my head no. Feed the engines the wine and burn my clothes for fuel. I will help you hunt for quarters in the seat cracks, we'll pay the pilot to continue on, to Godthab, to Gdansk, to the Black Sea, to Ceylon, to Borneo. Just keep the plane flying. Let the air hold us aloft. We can remain forever on the dark side of the earth, out of day's reach.
You are laying on your side, pale moon silk molting into mattress. You are bent and still, listening to the other end of a wire that's stretched taut across hills, buried beneath black cities, under moss, piped through rivers. It spins into my mouth, wraps itself like a bandage on my swollen tongue. Each time I mouth a worm word a thin trickle of electricity follows the light night path to your bed, your ear, your wet lungs, your silver, shimmering skin. Don't sleep, not yet.