Crashing
by Kenneth Wanamaker

    over the North
    Atlantic silver wings
    fall apart in
    fiery slivers.

    I walk
    reluctantly to first
    class.  select an
    aisle seat and
    do not look down.
    next to me a
    market analyst laments
    the crash of the
    Dow.  'worst crash
    since '29, he says.
    did he see it
    coming I asked.
    see it as he
    sat belted to his
    seat. arms braced.
    nothing to do but
    wait. or was he blasted
    out of his chair
    before redeeming
    his dividends.

    that we are
    suspended midair
    is a mystery taken
    for granted by
    peanut-toting stewards
    and suited execs.
    even greater the
    mystery of hurling
    headlong to earth
    a firefly wounded,
    plunging.






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