The Loss of Now
Glen Gonzalez
I watch the wind stretched thin across the wing —
above cursive rivers that caress
the green grids of square yards and empty lots —
through shredded clouds and sunlight paused in fog
The airplane’s shadow slithers over flat-
-tened hunting grounds, forgotten battlefields
and restful hills where scars and hunger slept —
where minds wandered into their first strange dreams
A child beside me peers into a screen —
an arrowslit that limits his sore eyes
to a narrow field of war — the glass is
scratched like a bright sky littered by the mis-
-spellings of vapor trails — a splatter
of matchsticks — fingernail marks on a ledge