Grace, he called it,

the way an airplane looked

from behind, banking left-right

upward into the sky, so

very

light, the

planes always looked, lifting,

without any effort

planes always looked, not

lifting, not soaring, simply

graceful-being, from behind,

trailing somehow forward into

a vibrating sky.

//

Grace, he called it, how

the airplanes looked from behind,

so narrow, wings bowed upwards,

tale a tiny erect slice dividing the

lifting body horizontally as it

banked into a vibrating blue sky. How

did they look so different,

from behind, he wondered. How light

and airy such a screaming metal penis

became when turned ninety degrees,

when hauling all its cargo away

through the sky, an absurdly still-winged

bird, magic.

//

Grace, he called it, how the planes

looked from behind, slightly bow-winged,

twin tail-mounted engines backlit, like

tiny balls somehow above their screaming

metal shaft that nearly disappeared behind

the grace of hauling all its cargo

into a vibrating sky.

//

Grace was the spontaneous word, every

time a plane banked

//

Grace, he called it, how the planes

looked from behind, slightly bow-winged,

twin tail-mounted engines backlit, like

tiny balls somehow above their screaming

metal shaft, which itself nearly disappeared behind

the beauty of hauling all its cargo

into a vibrating sky.

//

--RFRY, 15 Sept 06