One said to me tonight or was it day
or was it the passage between the two,
“It’s hard to remember, crossing time zones,
the structure of the hours you left behind.
Are they sleeping or are they eating sweets,
and are they wanting me to phone them now?”
“In the face of technological fact,
even the most seasoned traveler feels
the baffled sense that nowhere else exists.”
“It’s the moving resistance of the air
as you hurtle too fast against the hours
that stuns the cells and tissues of the brain.”
“The dry cabin air, the cramped rows of seats,
the steward passing pillows, pouring drinks,
and the sudden ridges of turbulence. . .”
“Oh yes, the crossing is always a trial,
despite precautions: drink water, don’t smoke,
and take measured doses of midday sun,
whether an ordinary business flight
or a prayer at a pleasure altar. . .
for moments or hours the earth out of sight,
the white cumuli dreaming there below,
warm fronts and cold fronts streaming through the sky,
the mesmerizing rose-and-purple glow.”
“So did you leave your home à contrecoeur?
Did you leave a life? Did you leave a love?
Are you out here looking for another?
Some want so much to cross, to go away,
somewhere anywhere & begin again,
others can’t endure the separation. . .”
One night, the skyline as I left New York
was a garden of neon flowerbursts—
the celebration of a history.