The Captain’s Dream
Limbs and thickets hide its face in the midst.
In the underbrush, a clearing, an auteur’s hut.
Moths and thin legged pests dot its doors.
A spearhead, a man made vessel points to space.
In each quarter, space for one lit by bulb and sun.
Her voice soars like flock, low then high.
A bridge sublime, a chorus lifts off.
It sings to other worlds of pain and loss,
A life formed, a beauty innate and real.
And time, now and tomorrow collide in mind
And body. Its dense fuselage sways,
And wings hum against a passing sky.
In each window, kaleidoscopic hues, eclipsed
In part by a slim dark emblem, glow on open texts.
Thrusts rumble. A whirring rhythmic tongue chants.
In shaken metal and foam, the pilot’s pew,
The heights of us, the caliph and the captain’s dream.
A spell supreme devours us whole.
Something else is here. I want it to know I see.