There’s a hole in me the size of a departing flight.
Something taxis up to the edge and takes off, flying out of me toward a horizon.

(It’s not that I can see any horizon; I just know that’s
what planes fly into. It used to be the wild blue yonder that planes

flew into, but no one thinks planes are that wild anymore — they seem to us
more like stale buses full of cranky people eating meals that don’t

fill them, much the same way that nothing fills me now.)
I keep thinking, even after my mind falls into the hole in me and disappears,

that I’m going to rise and follow that vapor trail into the blush,
catch up to the flight before the sun goes down;

you’d think I’d know better by now,
I ought to know better by now,

I ought to be able
to figure this one out.