The plane takes over the stage
where last night, constellations starred.
The morning’s blue backdrop
rips. Out pops a yellow machine,
double-storied. Oblong wings
tilt, bank, circle, assail
a sea field of corn stalks
high as a bulldozer’s windshield.
Two months ago, the earth opened.
Shouted under vast electric light.
Kernels danced into soil,
sprouted into floppy leaves—
they wave their tassels
to push away the airplane’s
sticky downward-drifting dust.
A shocking plane to fly so low,
just outside a bedroom window.
It should be in a museum, but
the live shadow sails on grass lawns.
Shakes the ears with alarm.
Greenwich Branch, CT