On The Write Path

Flight

Flight (tentative title)

Sweet smell of the toilet;
persistent rush of air;
music in the ear...

It five-thirty a.m. flying over Hamburg
and I'm thinking of Patrick.
I'm thinking of you.

I'm watching Woman in Gold,
tears not shed for seventy years,
we birth in a channel of air,
soon very soon.

I walk down the aisle to flex the muscles
before flesh separates for old bones.
There is peace at ten-thousand meters.

We soar over the reichland,
still wary of ghosts,
spectres that never die.

The seat is stiff,
the lights dimmed,
outside it's still night.

I long for orange juice
and the intangible suchness
of staying alive.

©Kåre Enga [6.oktober.2016... over Germany]

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