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A plane flies off a map's edge
today. At the console, O'Hara inhales
the ozone of Curacao dusk.
Manilla postcards, weightless with
preprinted greetings, flutter in confined
space, franked, illegibly signed.
The manifest's well under payload.
Faces in cabin windows are graven
waxy masks, their sightlines
uninterrupted by pitchy flights
of eastbound ebony swans.
The hold's a chaos of tethered
cockatiels, small gods from Surinam.
Bursting valises disgorge wrist-watches,
standby parachutes, a crushed trumpeter's
mute. The co-pilot stows
isobar charts, taps the compass
twice for luck: he mouths a childhood
formula under clearwater skies
before resuming routine announcements
to the remanants of a cabin crew.
© Anne Marie Fyfe
© E-magazine LiterNet, 06.05.2004,
№ 5 (54)