is a shift in time,
vacuumed airports at one a.m.
to vacuumed airports at four.
outside the drowsy hum of the plane,
time is strung in a silvery
line between two cities.
Taking off:
a grid of golden stars disappears
in a constellatory leap;
Landing: the hills have changed,
sprawled like restless sleepers
knotted in their blankets.
The lights are out, but the
stars hang the same,
except they are drooping a bit on the horizon.
And the question forms: Will there be someone
to find me here?
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