from Atlantic to Pacific
On my departure from Charles de Gaulle Airport,
the broad lounge around a gate is brilliant, infused
with voice echoes: receding vapour into the dome roof.
Once in the aeroplane, the miniature of world in May
appears through windows like my laptop screen. Unending
trimmed sights. And timeless travel in the air.
How many kids are blowing bubbles beside the Seine now?
How are poets writing poems about the small town Silves now?
How are villagers collecting amber in Gdansk now?
In the borderless space where chats mix with incessant whines
of engines, one language is a riddle for me:
unfamiliar sound beyond my expectation – Hebrew.
Via the Gulf of Riga, via Lake Ladoga,
from fissures in clouds tinted with blue in transition,
fern–green woods, tannish fields emerge on Eurasia.
With turbulence, on the stiff seats, under buff blankets,
passengers nap, wake up above the faraway
cold lowland where there are frozen streams
and mountain peaks with snow caps in the darkness
over the Stanovoy Range. The red lamp
on the left wing shines like Sirius with high luminance.
A lot of anonymous names of cities, towns
on the night diorama – I have passed.
The dawn begins between Tynda and Mogocha.
The blue hour falls, the dark sky splits, the sun strews
lemon rays, madder rays. The moment of enchantment
with gutturals wow of viewers who see the icy outside.
The aeroplane goes down slowly, and lands on the ground.
I can place myself moving from Silves via Paris on the map: Tokyo.
I feel on my skin a hot, humid wind: Asian wind.
