Discrete Flights

Discrete Flights

By Ben Nardolilli

The smog tells me a destination is somewhere close,

how the pilots can locate us is a miracle,

even if I was standing in the cockpit

all the maneuvers would still remain a mystery

Spires rise beyond the wings, a colonnade

of steel and glass with its origins hidden by clouds,

each one of them gleams 

and pokes out through the haze like a needle

We manage to get through them,

our fuselage intact, our pressure uninterrupted,

I recline in my allotted space and focus, 

moving on to new worries about life on the ground