Capsules. For poem

Overhead the behemoths drone in and out

of personal spaces.

My wife returns to our enfolded warmth.

The rumble-in and then a roasting thunder

quickly passes into someone else’s quiet ownership

to leave a vague memory

of a clamour

like a lament that hasn’t reached fulfilment

or a desire left hanging, forlorn.

Out there in measured air the passengers

on a finger of flame jealously regard

their own tight goals, blind to me

wrapped in linen and sheltering from the light.

But at times the ragged space just moans

in a grumpy thunder that recedes into a whining howl

like an in-law with a curse.

Yet at other times these flying shipments

glide by in a murmur rubbing shoulders

with hopes and dreams.

So I imagine they go in peace.

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