LANDING

Flying over God’s mountains, canyons, wastelands

glimmering with foxfire, graveyards where owls vanish and appear,

you drop from the stars

like a soul being born,

and still bearing the toxins

of your own world, glide down

to whatever destiny awaits.

Dawn struggles up from the torn clouds of houses,

yet even a miserable village twitters at sunrise,

the trees filled with magpies, the river with sewage—

here’s someone’s adopted city, another’s hometown.

Thinking of landing recalls your departure,

though what you remember may hardly be worth it,

just one more lesson from the world,

where the strictest regulations still leave space

for life—after all you’ve been through,

if you’re bitten by a cur, it’s nothing.

You’re required to confess a destination, a relative,

a name, so you can exit to the wind and sand.

You’re required to declare your place, its inhabitants, a language,

show your face. You’ll try to avoid the crowds

but may have to open your suitcase.

You touch down, a clean landing,

while the iron birds thinking of takeoff

are brewing up their roars.

You unclip your seatbelt, see the first man

on earth, just awakened,

steering the baggage cart past the tail.