Something is happening back in Washington,
though we are 40,000 feet above the Mediterranean.
We are rising high, the scalloped
edge of the Holy Land a mere hem below,
through unraveling skeins of clouds,
the hush unearthly.
It is 18:30, late day rays spreading,
just another day ending. Look! – I gasp –
the liquid fuchsia in the
(while seven hours back, he
is laying his small hand on his family Bible)
That red lake of light pooled in the clouds!
Clearly not the devil’s stirring pot –
too beautiful. No sinners turned upside down
no naked bodies skinned
although we don’t have our binoculars handy.
18:45; 19:00. The tide is turning.
He wrests the podium. Fans are
magnified in his mind. Although we are in
Lebanese airspace, soon over Turkey, we can
practically see the spottiness of the crowd.
In Rome, the Tiber is misting moodily,
Paris birds are skittering gaily
in the frozen fountains of the Tuilleries.
No matter where we are
(40,000 feet above the Mediterranean),
the world is spinning madly.