whispered lineage

I

How the very narrow line between
falling and sense staying airborne
demands that words take the same
sheer arc into unreason that a
disappearing airplane does

unreason not as irrational but
as fated and fabulous as the
gods would make it so

when bare happenstance is too
fine a narrow edge for most
passengers through life to
disappear on

II

the gods but not a God. Some
are doubtless made for
transcendence but that doesn’t
always mean Heaven.
just that in the seven or
more hours the plane flies pilot-
less between a fated beginning
and the fated end, there is a

wide, tenseless spacetime of void
to survey the realms of all
beings and let Kali, Osiris and Pluto
take jealous heed of that Scylla
of being nowhere and the
Charybdis of eternal falling.

III

because (the gods listen well now)
it is always disappearing, hasn’t
stopped falling, the black-box
is also dream and the wide,
tenseless spacetime is
terrestrial as well, stalks
the harried, groundless on-
rush down here below as much
as those panoplies of unseeing
cloud above. Gaia’s
solitary messengers in those
unearthly vast palaces and, asleep
somewhere now, gods and myth
already and just as blind…