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.