Sandburg's fog and Eliot's whimper were
Much on the mind as body and daughter
Descended through soft clouds to Oregon.
Daughter had flown rarely enough to be still
Moderately fascinated by the rise above
The clouds and the bumpy ride back down.
Self felt cornered in the window seat
And begged puppet to intercede with gods.
Domani spero. Puppet began to dance.
Self began to doubt the capacity to end
On anything remotely resembling own terms.
Body was exhausted, having been up
Half the night in the state of hyperextended
Panic that should have killed a kinder beast.
Nothing is any good if you can't pay for it.
The green, cleared and wooded, mangy hills
Unfolded under the lowering clouds,
And it's true that if you know the stars
And the clouds have nothing to say to you,
It makes for melancholy satisfaction when
Things are going well and being bought
In full, but will comfort you not at all when
You seek distraction from looming impact.
The plane landed on tiny cat feet, no bang.
Everyone struggled off and struggled on.
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