Flight Patterns

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I must be allowed to feel the gentle shaking,
the tiny electric bundles bumping against each other,
the miracle of porous molecular structure called life.
When a plane overhead makes the ground rumble,
I know without looking up that something has slipped by.
I can see swift shadows darting across the landscape.

Alienated from my own body,
my impoverished senses give little feedback.
What once I understood through attentive silence,
has become an unacknowledged source of confusion.
No mystery door opens wide for me,
as if I have been barred from the promises.
When I leave here, I would like directions.
Just please point the way.
Especially any shortcuts.

The shortcuts I know about have been dead-enders.
Do these few things, I’ve been told, and I won’t need any further help.
My talkative ego thinks it knows me, but I don’t listen any more.
My needs are beyond the imaginary life.
My slim assumptions about my being have been lies.
The shortcuts I’ve learned–I could drink them– fill the recycle bins with them.
I know myself only enough to know that I hardly know myself at all.

The end of each day comes with hours of uneasy refueling.
With the morning following: a jet turbulence
draws me away from my silence,
as if there comes the news of another fallen plane.
Some non-identifiable piece of awe and admiration
dropping into my deepest understanding,
landing in this land of wreckage.

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