Do gods watch me soar
Through the sky – a ladder
To be climbed, higher, higher
Relentlessly up and through
The uninterrupted blue,
As I find myself in
Alone in the almost ozone
With only thoughts
And a body, mid-transplant,
Mumbling adopted, magnet sighs.
My passport ironic in my pocket;
The plane-trail propels me onwards
On a slick of cloudy railroad,
And I leave behind uncertainties
And a burst ceiling of clouds
Discarded like clothes on the floor.
And instead, I watch the earth
Flower and roll below:
Alpine mountains like towering mothers,
Clouds clinging like children,
The crumpled paper peaks of earth
Crashing around like a foaming tide.
But this is an aluminium bubble
In a blue, full, pint glass of air,
And the plane continues rising, rising,
Floating up to the top
As though the sky is nothing
More than a liquid morning prayer:
Icarus-like, we continue
Towards the sun.
But there are no myths
In this abyss of modern ages.
The magic is defunct;
Insulated to the awe, the world
Revolving, a hummingbird buzz,
We fly through the epochs of gazed heavens,
Conquering miracles and puncturing the sky
Because we forge divinities ourselves
And now live them momentarily.