(From part of this post.)
Each blink is a minute long
ended by a shock, eyes flashing
open. The road, still there, the world,
still there. The car hurtling, hypnotizing
through Wisconsin fog so thick, so
solid against the glass, like an underwater
exhibit at the zoo, so white and devoid
that you’re sure you have died.
You’re driving through hereafter, your sins
breathing out through the exhaust pipe, your sins
coming off the car like flakes of peeling paint
as you cruise between the lines.
It’s not death, it’s morning on the land,
the Midwest’s breath all gathering at once on the chill
air. Shake your head. Buy yourself a second
to open your eyes too far and roll
your shoulders to simulate life, activity
and imitate the awake in hopes you catch it.
The music’s far away, in the corners of the car,
and the road glides by like sky beneath you.
Touch the car that touches
the road that touches
the earth, that’s real, and remember
everything is solid. You can die.
When you’re home, you’re home in bed,
lying on sleep’s beach, letting the tide
rinse you, test you, coax you out. You think
to the ceiling, “Did I make it home?” Or
are you asleep at high speed, drifting
across lanes, nothing slow-mo about it,
changed at once into a wreck, backhanded
off the way, over a ditch, into a farmscape?
Once you establish the bank, relax.
The pressure on the ailerons and rudder
pedals? Neutralize them.
Not all of the lift is available
to overcome weight.
You’ll tend to descend.
It’s a shallow spiral.
Roll out
before the desired heading
or you’ll overshoot.
—
© 2009 Will Hindmarch.
This is the second found poem in a series from my dad’s old copy of Cessna’s Manual of Flight.
