3-23 Five Miles Up

Five Miles Up

 

A hurricane blasts shingles and roofs into grotesque piles.

At an airport four states north,

its spinning hem whips gusts at takeoff.

 

Ascending at thirty degrees, the wings abruptly tilt

and one nauseated man bangs, a pin ball

against the aisle seats, toward the lavatory.

My eyelids squeeze into slits.

In the pitch of mind Dread whispers

 

“Wind shear.”

 

A soul prays boldly

and with great purity

at five miles above.

 

A jet is aluminum foil.

A windy grip can tear

With serrated edge

and

fling

it

towards

the

pitiless

ground.

 

It is clear

how thin everything is

 

even a prayer.

 

 

 

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One Comment

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  1. Ruthie Anderson March 31, 2017 — 2:55 pm

    I like the mood you create here.

    Can you tell I am starting my morning with reading or re-reading your poems? Rain, relax and Peter’s poems…a good Friday ensues!

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