The roughest takeoff from the airport
could never outdo the shock of parting.
There I was, buckled in, frightened
like a child, not from safety
instructions, or the engine-drone starting,
but your figure waving
behind the glass of the observation deck,
though you couldn’t have guessed I was watching.
And also couldn’t see me waving back
the whole runway’s length, even after your solitary speck
was lost. Then the further auctioning off
of towns and hills that flashed below—going, gone
as I left the coast behind. I turned
my head away, shut my eyes. It wasn’t, but felt
like the saddest thing I’ve done.