From the Holy and Beautiful East
by Donald Standeford

As I fly above the clouds, I hear whispering
Of engines vibrating; they whisper of power
To hold this plane on its plane pocket of air;
Whispers of monotony, a constant state of rising

Seatbelts taken off and people boozing then
Descending, but always constant whispering
Of the metal beast; she whispers of her power
To speed above clouds through space

Desert below her, so beautiful its face;
Would it absorb the thoughts of my soul, erase me
From this perch on nature, forces that hold
Me curl up and die? A true force, the earth

Even truer the moon, beyond it Mars, cold, dead;
Below lazy streams combine into lazy rivers;
See the sum of sand and smell the rum;
Smell the whiskey, the curdling yeast; soon

He will come from the holy East, rise, rise, rise
And raise the dead up as he flies, raise both
Body and soul alive; those he claims as his own,
Never, ever again to be left here all alone.

Don V Standeford

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