airplane half-poem

I am not the first
to write a poem
at high altitude,
comfortable, numb,
indelicately phased
by holy dances
licking the roof
of an airplane’s mouth
like electric eel disco,
magnificent rainbows
of loneliness, so far
above the water,
so far from either point
of home. I am not the first
to write a poem
in the scheduled dark,
half-clever, widowed by
my one true nature,
weak for all things
delicately phrased
and far far too
expensive