May 25, 2011

May 22, 2011

November 4, 2008

Departing Chicago.

The plane is nearly empty. Everyone sits down quickly, immediately orders a drink.

There are ribbons of newspapers, expired information.
What's happening in Virginia? Indiana? Pennsylvania?

Everything is dark. The plane queues for takeoff with a whine. Flight stewards talk about nothing. "When will we know?" "Maybe tonight."

On earth the polls are closing. Above the plane is hermetically sealed. No information enters or leaves. We settle into the sky above Lake Michigan, among satellites blinking quietly above the water.

Somewhere below, above the night, comes a phone call.
Hi, it's me.
Oh. Hi.
What's up?
Nothing. You?
I think I'm going to bed.
OK. I guess it's late.
Yes. I'm tired. You go on without me.

The airport late at night

Empty, little cocoons of conversation. Most are alone. You see them in the distant dim, faces lit by their screens. A single Indian woman sits with a straight back, talking on the phone to her husband, promsing herself to him again and again.

May 1, 2011

True Story

Did you know that above the clouds it is always sunny?
When I tell you this it seems impossible.
But it is true,
I swear.

There is always another way

Would you pack up and move to a winter house with me?
It would be a bleak spot on the map
that we would plant and bury
There would be a broken fire
and for months nothing but
smoke would
mark our presence.

There would be so much to do.
It's always that way
when you start
There would be work in the back forty
and probably in the front, too
Fences, sheds, bridges, towers,
any architecture
we imagine
we would build
It would just be us
but that would be OK
since help is rarely what it seems.

I would not stop you from going outside alone.
I would stand at the window
with my gun
You would never get lost like before
At dusk you would return
I would take off your boots
count your blue toes
and make you home.

This would be a temporary fugue.
One day the lights
never noticed dark
would turn on
The doors would open
The air would rush in
All the friends we forgot we had
would walk up the path
and call our lost names.