Outside my window:
cities are flung like galaxies
across the sky-dark earth.
In the mirror of the wing,
the moon is a pot of fire.
Between stars and earth, movement
is the white noise of engines,
murmur of midnight conversations, hiss
of recirculated air. My tablet is tedious;
my seatmate thumbs a well-worn magazine.
Across the aisle, an old man gently snores.
No god of Olympian stature,
no up nor down
just the trundling snack cart,
tomato juice, pretzels,
and a window unsure of earth and sky
Galaxies drift on. Words cease,
and thought; finally we hover in blackness,
Hugh Anderson lives and writes on Vancouver Island, but sometimes his prairie roots show. He has published in numerous literary publications, but most recently in 3 Elements Review, Grain, Right Hand Pointing, The Willawaw Journal, The Tulane Review and Vallum. He has one Pushcart Prize nomination.