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Frozen Window |
The condensation iced,
the plane flew eastward,
scratch the oval window
and wonder why the walrus
has those long tusks.
The crystals bloomed,
expanded catawampus,
encircled small light grids
appearing miles below
along meandering rivers.
A wing pulsed a worn signal
flashing high in the empty welkin,
the vast vault of darkening sky.
Django Reinhardt plucked chords
of quondam times traveling
through headphones, cotton
pastime of tired ears.
I smelled blood roses,
swigger whiskey pools as water
whetting pablum tongue.
The passenger next to me stirred,
asked if I was writing poetry,
then fell back asleep.
We landed in Nashville,
my eyes adapted opaque.
copyright 2013
Angel Uriel
Perales |
