by Ian McDonough
Five hours in from Prestwick to Detroit
we peered down on Labrador’s wastes,
a randomness recalling nothing
you could match against memories,
sparking fear from deep within your spine.
Canada rushed beneath us, a light
each fifty miles or so, like stars
at the farthest edges of our universe,
stretched by frightful expansion.
Solitude was a boulder in my mouth:
around me the sleeping breath
of fellow passengers waxed and waned.
Dozing beside me
you whispered from your dream...
Each of us is on a lifeboat, drifting.