I’ve lost the heading and there are no more seats going home,
conversations abrading around me until the air—that thin ocean—
tethers to a deeper ache than mere homesickness, grows leaden
with every woven fraying strand, every place becoming nowhere.
Disoriented, my compass rose petals dropped among a bramble
of chrome armrests and regulatory voice-overs, the locus here, and
there, and somewhere else again, my center gone centrifugal down
to some other destination where contrails skywrite a cuneiform of
time-mist-vector that detains the setting sun, prolongs the moonrise.