Flight 7507, Thursday, near All Hallow's Eve (Rondeau)

Before the long last breath, on planes
bound far to south, at height of cranes,
and higher still, our oared bird flew.
To my core all sundry selves drew
in hope of flying whole, no strain

greater than ancestors' refrain:
"bring us back to earth" - in great pain:
the roiling clouds, cumulus brew,
before the long last breath.

The sky opens. Sudden and plain:
a blue coherent height. We gained
ancients on wing, steadfast, and grew
to thousands, passengers and crew.
Ghostly, winged, by window framed,
before the long last breath.



Scooter Cascadia
Near Hallowmas 42010

Tonight's flight

When we arrive at the station—
we stop. Smoke anticipation
butts. Pretend to read. Check the screen.
Everyone sits paused mid-careen
toward disparate revelations.

We pine for our destinations—
homecomings or recreations—
clutching our phones and magazines.
      When we arrive

beyond immobilization,
all thoughts of our hesitation
will stay here for the time being
to sit with all who pass between
now and the gratification
      when we arrive.