across the ocean
at noon,
the sun
stays with you,
white
and unmoving
in the porthole
portal.
Any change
you glimpse
outside —
in a bird’s flight,
in a cloud’s
frothing —
is an illusion.
You have
tricked time.
Nothing you do
up here counts
or can be
scrutinized.
You’ve risen above
the comatose
world.
When you at last
alight –
airport karaoke
and Starbucks kiosks
carrying on
without you –
it’s still noon.
The runway
stretches out
behind you,
black
as a slate.
3 comments:
Thief!
And you've lost the first line.
(A poem called "Theft" is just asking to be stolen?)
If you're not going to give it back, at least courteously restore the line.
missing the point
and thus
NO!
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