From the Air

i. Flying high

Far down past melting drifts of cloud

remote and faint lies mother earth.

Above the station of our birth

we ride the sunlight, swift and proud.

The wing-heeled boots, the crooked knife

lent us to hunt a monster with,

misborn into a crueller myth

we use against our mother’s life.

ii. Flying low
(for L)

That corner where the road

turns from the fields into the wood,

we met there sometimes—we?—

at dusk, would linger… we?… they?…

later, each separately,

found the night-slow

familiar way

home to the lit farmsteads… Who?