The airplane enveloped a place called Sky. It was a lonely turnstile sort of place where rain drops like musk and clouds are proverbs, for children perhaps. Anyone on the ground has no chance to steal a thing from the plane. This plane is heartache or acrobatic loss or something to be named anon. The changes of the countryside mean anything can be somewhere. One person reaches someone and that someone is a place. The place is a time: has this been said before? Reiteration will never stop the process. Music of fear exchanges heat. Formal entry of water into the surroundings is a dance, haha, or at least a fine process, worthy of academic consideration. When people look up, and the plane is overhead, why, the hayfields erupt with golden light, and trees become oaks of the longest standing. When people look down, the plane is gone, and highly unlikely. Orbic earth maintains its magnetism, association of people with cold, coldest facts. These are alerts and dismal truckstops where the doughnuts are painfully dry, stale, dull. The season of mist and mellow fruitfulness makes us laugh, tho that’s a prediction: we haven’t that time in hand just now. We ride a circle. Above us the plane is a catastrophic realism, going on and on like geese or ducks, seeking water, seeking home, seeking time, seeking place. The plane is just this memory of a future we hand to our lover. Someday, you see, that plane will be ours.