[The Stripes of Smoke Describing an Oblique, ]

The stripes of smoke describing an oblique,

Too steeply angled flight path seem to veer

Like homing pigeons toward the North Atlantic,

Till the wind rises and they start to blur.

They leave no trace but a distinct impression

Of more-than-civilian altitude and speed-

Not the LaGuardia-bound Airbuses flashing

Crosses of landing lights just overhead,

But something that technology's stripped down

To a stub-winged and pilotless syringe

That does not hesitate or ask permission

To consummate its supersonic plunge,

Lingering only in its passage higher

To draw these advertisements in the sky

For a new kind of combat, which requires

Us only not to notice or ask why.

Structure

16 lines · 1 stanza