The First Poem


The first gray light appears
After violet end of night
Reveals this over-sized parking lot,
Big metal boxes,
Sleek aerodynamic birds of the air
sleeping peacefully
before their engines roar,
lifting stomachs from the inside,
and we think we fly in style.
But the giant metalry
pretends at princedom of birds
and we barrel through space
at impossible paces
Never feeling the wind in our faces
like first so wonderful the Wright brothers did
When to fly was to nature-live
in the new way, before only dreamed
Now all nature removed to memory
In long lines, metal probes, sleeping seats,
Where first class is just for comfortable
(to forget the wonder that we are) flying.

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