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O, Mr. Blake, a sun halo
Skims a cloud floor
Beneath the airplane's wing—
Together we are flying home
To London in a trinity of light,
Space and time—the earth
Wears a blue grey cape,
Rivers point a way ahead,
White bright the skin
Of a day pleated with clouds
An angel's view, this thin edge
Of life, where we can still breathe,
I remain seated, Mr. Blake,
Buckled in for a British breakfast
Of sausage, mushroom and tomatoes
By a Rolls Royce airplane engine,
It is a miracle to be in a cold cabin
Life is layered, shared, exquisite
Wasteful, like the continent behind us
We are birds above a sand-laced
Shoreline, small islands,
Like collage cutouts blot the sea,
Humans are passing trays of food,
Glasses, mini bottles of wine,
As perspective ripples reality
Cities become seeds, archipelagos
I cannot name do a fast fade
While I write this poem,
A bridge suspended between
Continents. We move so fast
Tourists in our own life,
Horizons become maps we do not
Know, shadow lives we never live.