broken open over a small cemetery
where through this shapeless hole
a young girl breathes in your face
wants to tell you something in secret
the way the sun still whispers
to the stones it left on Earth
- at this height your hand folds tenderly
around another till the silence
becomes shoreline still trying
twice each day to bring the sea
back up with it - 30,000 feet
half graveyard, half fuselage, half
before each flight you inspect the wooden crates
keepsakes and among the ruins two useless radios
both tuned to the same station
as if there's a difference in the weather
one step from another
when you bring flowers to remember
rain or no rain - you look around for winds
and the weeds need watering
though you press your face against the dirt
- what grows here are those stones
already clouds, almost in formation
and on her lips clinging to the ground.
