Flying Out

Flying Out


When I enter an airport waiting area
I always think I’m going to Ireland,
as often I am,
but not this time.
This time I’m off to someplace else,
someplace new to me
if ancient to itself,
with its gray stones gold with age
with its blood stains concealed by
rags of goatsbeard,
and the wind out of Africa
allowing a translucent haze
of pharonic dust
sand
and the dander of lions.
I will be living for a week
on a rocky table
placed over a volcano.
This suits me:
the calm stone face
over potential turbulence,
the imminent, if not quite probable,
annihilation.
When I get there
I will stomp the gold dust and the gray stone
with my heel,
to let it know
I am up for anything.