7/Rosary of Summer

At 28000 ft.
above myths & seas
the world turns
like a rotten fruit

In the cabin
clean as a silver coffin
mortality expands beyond
our grip:
O We anchor certain limits
legends of godhood
& craft

Yet fail to acknowledge
reality of this gentle death
vast arms of space & blue

We, who brim to the gills
with death wishes & shocking
propositions on life & possibilities,

Tremble in our seats
like this jet plane that hums
through the silence of stars & space
shrugs off signs, clouds

Its engine, our hearts,
like whistles & whirs

in the ancient impersonal air

Onland, we rub our knuckles like
gladiators

So easily, we spit our
wagers:  though losers to the bone,
we banner tickets, gambles

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