What it looks like out my window here in the middle of the country

Night Flight Across the Atlantic

The northern lights pulse behind Greenland
a thousand miles past the last law.

Seven miles down, icebergs rally themselves
like mountain ranges in a black mouth.

At fourteen, he lay on a beach, gravel
and lake conversing at his feet.

At twenty-one, he shot a man in the desert.
At thirty, he planted the man’s heart under stone.

Where does the light come from. What stone
on the other side of laws.

Where does the light come from. What solar
wind. What spray pattern of dust. What bending.

These engines purr across the black. He lies
awake in the room of seat trays and dream.

Inside his chest at this moment, the muscle
makes room for islands he can already hear.

Look out the window. Colors reach this far
and over us. The compass will be worried.

Look out the window. Bread on the waves,
bread and all its faces turned finally away.