Poet's Choice: 'Wrong All These Years -- It Isn't' by Jeanne Larsen

By Jeanne Larsen
Sunday, May 31, 2009

"When I die and go to heaven," runs the old joke, "I'll hafta change planes in Atlanta." Me, whatever hub I'm flying in or out of, I try to remember what an astonishing opportunity I've been given. I try to get a window seat. I try to recollect old Chinese seekers who went to so much effort (climbing, maybe doing breathing practice or a little internal alchemy) in order to look out at the level of the clouds. We owe our grandchildren's kids that much -- owe them attentiveness, at least -- as we burn through their air.

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Wrong All These Years -- It Isn't

soft April, but March, thin & particular, dry,

we require or dryly imagine we do. Also wrong


(this is Daido roshi, though not his words) to believe

in the 1-way linear rapturous run after roll-out


from gate, & that flight deck's sharp calibrations

tell truth. (They do, of course, as long as plane chooses


to view these downwashing south Appalachians, splay

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