Notes in Mid-Air

In business

everyone’s asleep

the bodies swaddled

but secretive

as cocoons as if they were growing

inside the blankets.

Illuminated faintly

by a sparse glow

they could be arranged

for a Beuys exhibition

or a catafalque

of luminaries.

As you waft spirit-like

through a curtain

—the barrier sufficient between two worlds—

in economy you find

the silhouettes seated, nodding

in the dark like figures in a park

after the sun’s gone down.

Night has come suddenly. The aisles

are like interconnected paths

in old Europe—grandfathers

follow resolutely after infants while others sleep.

A baby’s been laid flat

the way I saw

a homeless child

in Apollo Bunder

diverting herself

at midnight, outstretched

on the lamplit macadam

where her mother had placed her.

Similarly, I discover

this one before the first seat

of the first cabin

by pure accident.