I Too Am a Plane

Clouds and Contrails

I Too Am a Plane

This morning I too am a plane,
flying high in a sky blue for me
as much as the next mind’s eye.

I move through an air amenable
to the formation of sensible—if also
ungraspable—shapes and directions.

I leave no trail but the unveiling of
my word-cirrus—not as strident as a
sky writer but having the urge to say.

A ship on a sea seems less apt to me,
as when the wind rearranges all
signs and indications into a new

afternoon of meaning, memory will
yet find its way to condense and fall
to ground as—somewhere—significance.

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