Jetlag
Jet fuel falls upon the clouds overhead,
Making oily smears across the night sky.
The sun ripples in a faint rooibos red,
And it sinks in the exhaust wafting by.
I hear an aloft, sibilant brisance.
I hear engines burst, rumbling where I stand,
And rattling me from my cognizance—
And into a less tellurian land.
I look down at the pavement beneath me,
Turning away from the kerosene trails
That contaminate these heavens I see—
Where stars seem to capitulate and fail.
I don't want to see what's lagging behind
In the process of becoming refined.
poem by Tim Stensloff
Added by Poetry Lover
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