claiming baggage

I could have watered those flowers
behind my eyes; if only I were there
to smell them, they would not thirst--presenting
 the same problem as always; peaking
out and contriving (yet) more distance,
stretching time and my patience to limits
that even a God, man-made and hand-baked
to perfection,
could not fathom.

My plane is preparing for landing.
I'm not on it. E v e r y  d a y
     thousands of (my) planes take off
and land.   Without me.
Planes that could stop me
forgetting.  Planes that would tremble and
re-stable and in doing so
remind me how to love and understand.
Planes that, more importantly, mean
proximity on this stubborn,
immobile earth (though she
shakes often for you).

Every roar in every jet engine

is made up of the 

heartbeats of lions and

lovers that I can never listen to.

the mechanized wings that once

carried me instead poke and bully the 

numbing parts of my brain responsible for

rash thoughts and words that sting
and results that burn cold.

I don't have a way to change this. They don't
make erasers for time.

Humans can't fly, and maybe for

good reason; if I knew it
I would take advantage every
single
day.