Justin Vicari
Planes
Looking up at them, I feel like a pagan.
I almost fall to my knees in fright.
And yet they do stay up, floating in the night
like big transplant hearts. Sometimes
their foamy spittle of exhaust
is the only thing moving
across this internalized zone,
frantic with walls. I once saw a fleet
of crows chase after a low-flying jet,
between the rooftops,
cawing down the aerial miles.
Did it seem to them like the return of a god
who could guide them back to the egg itself?
Page(s) 129
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