New Dead Things

Thirty-five thousand feet above
the Sierra-Nevada, my hands smell like rain,
or like the infant dove’s bloody feathers
the dog caught this morning,
just before the rainstorm (which feels like
it was sent), and unsure whether it was dead,
regardless, you buried it, afraid
to know you killed it yourself.
Like trees, we swayed slightly in the lather
of an uproarious and queer silence, gazing…
I, near the back door and you, from the porch,
waiting for it to finish its extravagant story.
I turn off the sound of the in-flight movie,
Andrei Tarkovsky’s, Sacrifice, and allow
the subtitles to float on their own.
To save the world, the man must sleep
with the woman, who may be some sort of
earth witch, who every morning
braids her black hair in the reflection of
her cloudy window. I see your words on my phone
as images, tiny roads, railway tracks
and uninhabited islands,
as if from an airplane passing over
another country. There are no words on
the screen which translate
the way two people rescue the world.
I do not read your last message to me.
There is too much rain in the desert.

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