I think we all come to this place eventually.
Look outside the window
And see the pale winged whales,
Lumbering loudly through the dark.
I think— sitting here, drinking sullen airport coffee—
That everyone I’ve known
Has lived in the bellies of those grey whales,
Wet-skinned on an ocean of tarmac,
Callously rushing toward the light and sound
Above the cloud layer.
There’ll be some chop on the way up, what on account
Of the writhing phantoms of the lower atmosphere;
This is no air to test the wings in.
Yet why delay?
Soon we will all go away.
Yes, soon we will all go away up into the whiteness:
Whatever shall we find on the other side?
After all, there is so much sky.