Landing

The pilot lowers the flaps and the plane slows

as if pausing to take one last deep breath

of the chilled air of the heavens before wading out

into and then bellying onto the stale smell

of the city, and holding that breath for as long

as it can, the mushy gray trees of the suburbs

rising up from the bottom. And then it lets go

of that breath with a rush, spreads out its wings,

and lets itself slide, with all the passengers

holding on to its shoulders, down the slick slope

into the depths of whatever is waiting.