Above hang clouds, flat bottomed and heavy,
the propellers absentmindedly snick, snicking at
their bellies.
Below, clouds breathe and shift like a living thing.
I am in an airplane sandwich,
suspended in a pocket of clarity,
cloud above, cloud below with the sunset
spilling in from the side, trickling,
staining the slices of cloud
like the pink juice from a ripe tomato.
the bottom slice tears, the way
bread does when you try to spread
hard butter.
Lights appear in the darkness.
I am home.
#81