RENEWAL

BY BILL MOHR

I've forgotten the name of the aiport I took off from,
though not how the runway was carved out of an atoll,
and there wasn't much to think about in the shack

bulging from the hangar except my companion's luck
and memory at playing gin rummy, a pack
of cigarettes for every thousand points. I rolled

exquisitely and concentrated on elevation.
I didn't glance down, or circle over the mechanics
who wouldn't have paused even if the engine stalled

or I ejected a flare signalling beginner's panic.
I'd seen others depart before me and knew
their rudimentary attentiveness: they'd mutter

about the next plane, repairing a rudder,
or mastering an oil pump, even as the one
they finished was taxiing. Beasts on lands

I flew over prowled their individual valleys,
obsessed with borders and longevity.
If possible, I wanted it all to disappear,

and be replaced by an immense burgundy flower,
its petals sketched with rippling dots
or orange and black. It was possible,

and inevitable, but not while I was in flight.
I headed down, steering towards privacy.
As I got closer to the surface, details firmed

against their frame, distances receded,
and though for others a continent of cities and farms
was real, for me it might as well have been antiquity.

I worshipped consolations: flowers on outliers
flared with hallucinatory tassels, miniscule
in their delicacy. It was difficult to tell where one

mound ended and another began its renewal:
the dip of stubble downslope rose to push itself
to the summit, which vanished upon arrival.

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