window seat

(February 2022. Written on a cross-country flight from LAX to BOS. I found a moderately dosed shroom chocolate in my backpack while waiting at the gate, and had the best flight of my life.)

i am the stinkiest person on this flight
and they cannot see my giggling behind my mask

who owns stock in United?
they thought they could unite the world
but who can afford it?

the asphalt is a baking cupcake
batter swirling
and the shroom chocolate is coming up
and i am giddy in a window seat
ready for takeoff

we launch west from lax
over the ocean
into the clouds
and the pressure of joy
pushes my chest and throat
and my cheeks hurt religiously.

there is a crazy person on this flight
barely stifling ecstasy
at the dream come true
we are to pretend is banal.

we turn east toward boston,
my forehead sticks to the greatest window
and i barely blink as the continent
rolls diagonally along my eyes
all the way.

there is not a moment’s discontinuity
for the rock and all stuck to it,
the greatest exploration from high of
a new world discovered
yet again.

the water and the valleys and the farms
and the mountains and the red rocks
and the highways and the orange canyons
and the deserts and the dirt roads
and the taller mountain range in the distance
and the plains and the farms and the grids
and the rivers and the hills
and the snow and the cities
and the lakes and the towns
and the roads all touch.

it is a wonderful country,
and there is space
for all together.

we slipped southward
as we walked west—
to escape the magnetism of LA
is no easy feat,
but i fight my way back to boston
because i have ideas
which must be tempered
and hardened in the cold forge.

there are eastern bays and inlets
and snakes of water settling in time
and it seems not a bit of land
is left undeveloped,
but up close i know i’ll be home.

somehow there is still room
in the wrinkles.

show me the shape of the coastline
and i will show you the shape of the land
and i will show you the shape of the water—
all things meet in a single string.