11 of 30

What if the sky were green?

"...we wouldn't know where to stop mowing."

- Judge Harry Stone, Night Court

Because sight lies, I am learning

to fly blindered, nothing but numbers.

My sky is the billiard-table felt

that lines the training goggles.

I read the story as I tell it: the plan,

the place, the velocity. I focus

on the glyphs, but what I want

as I check my bank and attitude

in the artificial horizon is to see

something besides this nothing.

These needful hours with no proof

of flight but numbers

and the trainer's initials. My wings

mop and mow under rough air.

Everything is pool-hall green

and trying not to die, another

preventable catastrophe chalked

up to pilot error. I want to think

of a metaphor, but what vehicle

is left when flying is the given?