THE JET STREAM OF HEARTACHE

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We have begun our final 
descent
That’s what the sleep pilot 
Says,
His morning daddy voice 
Soft as a wisp 
of finger-plucked
Field cotton
As we fly out of the 
turbulence 
the jet stream of heartache
Which have been my dreams 
Of late
Aboard the red eye 
Whose path 
Flies dangerously low 
over the bridge 
that links the valley of 
night sweats 
and the battlefield of terror
With its pillars of punishment
And deception
Which I receive as the truth 
Like pamphlets of 
wartime propaganda
That descend
Like a thousand angel wings
Sent from the biggest
Symbol of all
Who we can only touch
In the final seconds of our dreams
Right before we wake 
With seats in upwards position
And seatbelts fastened
Just before we
land.

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