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
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
It is clear
how thin everything is
even a prayer.