Air Travel

Some sense of freedom
whistling in my hair, which
I used to love, but now
is weaker every time—
staring from the hidden third
dimension, which like time
does not, in daily life, reveal
the power of its actuality
—captured on the wing
a flash of sun on red paint
engineering angles, rivets,
death-high, death-fast, roaring
and yet still: we could be idling
unless I look up from my phone.
Do I refuse it? Why is it weak now?
I try to care; then floating back
to little screens, collapse myself
back into my little cage.

June 2021