Cargo Cult
Then one day the cargo comes,
after the weeds have eaten the runway
and the man who waves torches at its end
has gone home without food,
and the plane made of sticks has collapsed,
and the indifferent jungle has grown
like the sea to the world's edge:
something lands and takes off.
Not during your sly devotions,
but in darkness while you sleep,
the part of you tracking arrivals
hears an engine through the trees
and reaches to touch one you love,
slipping your hand over her skin
lightly and smoothly as a bird in the air.
12-16-14
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