Sport 21: Spring 1998
These lines rang true for a 21-year-old with only a suspicion or intuited sense that all was not right with the world, and an emerging belief that poetry might almost make up for that. In hindsight I think that the year 1982, to start with, was a runway we taxied out onto. The rest of the year was one long plane trip, from the time I took off until I landed 12 months later.
I do not like this chariot. It gives me
Faustian dreams. Undoing the seat belt
And lighting up a smoke …
… I meditate the doom
Of Icarus, while the hostess brings
Coffee in trim red mugs. A calm flight.