I am in a plane trying to let go.
Talked too long, made it about me
again. We are over the piece of country
where farm fields turn to foothills.
There is nothing to write except
rights are being gutted. Lately
I distrust pretty language,
how tidy it tries to be. I can see
where frozen lakes thaw halfway in,
ice so thin you’d fall through.
Somewhere down there, someone has.
Farm hills to foot fields. Farm feet
to field hills. Hills of feet, fielding.
A farm where, there too,
rights are being gutted. We fly
by a chemtrail and for a moment
it’s easy to believe in chemtrails.
In the villain and the villain’s plot,
people toiling, no choice really
but to breathe. Going home?
asks the woman in the middle seat.
Sorry? I say, and she gestures:
never mind. No one is in the mood.
The truth? I never cared much.
Saw myself sitting stoic as the plane
plummeted through empty sky.
Hand pressed to my still-hollow center,
I can feel the cut of my own lie.
Of course I’m in love with being alive.