another day

the general died in vietnam and he died in panama.

he died in bosnia and iraq. he has died so many places

they keep promoting him until now he knows he'll go

no further and he nests himself well inside an eternal

present. when word comes he waits with a half-smile,

listening on the phone. all voice reduced to mechanic

impression, all distance embedded in flight path, everything

has meaning to it now, if only surface, and burning somewhere


but that's, of course, how the whole planet lives on-

the calyx broken, molten, and seeping up through

unconscious capillaries skyward. the pressure breaks,

and a thousand small voices cry out for a moment, then

silence- and more come, and more are born, and the general

has died enough times that it does not faze him any longer.

he is at lakenheath where the jets gear off ready, bucking

wild for release across the arc of perfect sky. he watches the

propulsion of fuel and promise and follows the contrails until

they disappear to vapor, blend in fading white across blue