Is it the new-century halo of an air hostess,
this fireball bouncing through the fuselage?
Because she evokes a renaissance madonna,
she resembles an alien handing out lavender
pillows to the anxious children in first class.
At the same time she's terrestrial. Certainly,
Captain Zeus is not her boyfriend. A plan
is developing in snowstorms of Olympus
to strike at her vanities with mega-lightning.
The silicone goddesses are jealous. Impossibly,
the plane is close to the black edge of space.
Passengers are reading novels. Porn magazines.
          Flying above the weather was never like this.
          Is that our pilot sitting out there on the wing?

He used to roam behind these walls.
This was his honey-coloured stone
lunar night-field in the fog:
big round badger on the prowl.
Now he lies here on the verge,
flat bristled doormat, a dusty pad
over which the transport passes.
Rapid winds of the juggernauts
ruffle his long whiskers extended
on tarmac. He sniffs out doom,
far from a silent hinterland country,
black nostrils part of the asphalt.
Roll over him as you cross these frontiers.
Here's the way into the modern world.