Fragment, born while listening to a 2 a.m. plane

Airplanes are for forgetting. Every ascent pulls out
particles of past. You lost
your kindergarten teacher’s name
hurtling into the Cuban sun. Somewhere
over Patagonia, Pythagoras and Icarus
fell from you. And, to the right of the craft,
passengers may see, dropping into the Grand Canyon
like a castaway flare,
your first kiss.