jet plane :: donald f. drummond

Within the cracking air the plane defies
My listening ears: aluminum has spanned
Horizon and horizon, while the hand
Has scarcely settled over seeking eyes.
The sound remains to throb against the drums:
A mortal thunder nurtured in the head,
And brought to being when the fact has sped
Beyond recall of all the down-turned thumbs.

The cancer of the mind refuses treatment,
Usurps the lightning and complains of thunder,
Digs out the keystone under the escarpment,
Reviles the avalanche which returns it under.
The mind is color-blind and tired and set:
The color of its flaming wake is jet.