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

Posted on April 16, 2012 by Paraic O'Donnell