Out of Touch

MARK McCLOSKEY

OUT OF TOUCH

The plane lifted over clouds and I

Floated in bluest air dazzled by sun:

How out of touch it was to be so high!

And it was true, I did not want to come

Down, yet drifted farther than the plane

Forgetting all about the shadow-ground

That would create my latitude again

And when I wasn't looking, pull it down.

Then that dazzling zero over time

Frightened me: I thought about your hand

That let me go, and wondered if your mind

Could bear to keep so close to crowded land

A residue of me? And then once more

I wanted to be with you, deep indoors.