Flight Time

,The hours of flight are hidden time
inviolate somehow, exempt
,from the insistence of the surface
,the holding down, always
,of one job or another—a slackening
.a wave from the terminal
The levelling out, the steady drain
.to quiescence of the felt world
Tropopause. The abandonment at last
even of weather, the noise
.threadbare now, and pieced together
.from silences that show through
Then six or seven nightward hours
with only the ideas of spin
and drift, the receding of the world
to elsewhere and nothing
further can be done, there is nothing
..beyond your own closed skin

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