Somewhere between Toronto and Berlin
we hang—beads of dew—lachrymal, free
from gravitational demands, trembling
in the fervor of a sleepless northern
sun scattering its dawn over Greenland’s
desolate winter. Auroral wings lift us
gently beyond midnight’s turbulent
slumber—an airy lullaby. Humming,
hearts keep time with beating engines.
There are two lifts in flight:
One a conspiracy of hours, whose sleight
of hand skips over meridians; the second,
a Lilliputian parody of scale—faith
performing parlor tricks with altitude.
Suspension of disbelief keeps us airborne
soaring through thinning atmospheres.
Anything to distract from the drop—it is
both—staggering beauty, unwavering terror.
