& the clouds look close enough to touch.
they pass overhead quickly, hurrying along,
and the impossible grey-blue of the night sky parts to clear the way.
the tree tops, stripped of their leaves, look finger tips,
stretching, trying to snag a bit of cotton.
& the lazy blink-blink of an airplane passing overhead
draws my eyes away from my bedroom ceiling,
brings me to the window-pane.
the stars are simply onlookers in this little airplane's journey,
in the folds of my late-night mind,
the plane makes a stop at each and every star
and the passengers ooh and ahh at the beauty.
this one is made of crystal, and that one before
was a giant glowing moon-jellyfish.
it does not matter to them when they arrive at their destination.
they have plenty of time to waste up in the sky.
& an old paper falls out of my notebook, penned in red ink.
'idea' it says, followed by a clumsy heart.
it tells of a story I wished to write, all mapped out and ready.
& I lay down to rest, wind raging against the walls,
raging, raging, raging.
but nothing can reach me here.