when you lean your head against the wall
of the plane you hear it for what it is: a ball
of metal hurtling like a crazed insect. it’s easier
to say things out loud at 30,000 feet: how seeing
me naked doesn’t excite you anymore, how we put
our hands on each other by default because it’s what
people in love do. from above the mountains
look like some sort of reptile–the back of a giant lizard.
i imagine falling from the edge of the wing like a seed:
not light enough to float, not heavy enough to fall straight
down. instead i drink ginger ale and look for snow.
what a stupid luxury this life is.