I see the turbine from my airplane window.
Not the sunlit views of my jigsawed hometown nor
The whipped layers of cloud we’ve risen above.
Only this loud sky breathing cylinder of revolving metal.
So close to me, a couple yards from the plexiglass protection,
equal to the distance from the foot of my bed to the door.
If the turbine were in my bedroom, the bedsheets and I would be sucked in.
We’re always so close to danger.
You, chopping the leaves off a beet with a serrated knife.
Me, submerging my head in the tub till the suds dissolve.
You, tilting your neck to shave around your Adam’s apple.
Me, sliding my hand up your sleeve
to grip the arm
that connects to your chest
that contains your heart. Here, more than any destination,
I’m in flight.