The planes seem to crash into my room.
I feel their wings lurch
In torment of darkness
And silver; they leave their shadow
Flat for an instant, then run
Across the floor, like mice.
One long, little shadow of death.
Sweep, dip, roar in the sudden
Zipped bass of them
Above my roof, and I crouch down.
I am nothing but the seed of fear,
Crouching under the plane’s white
They are dark and silver in sunlight.
Yet in my room they become
Little shadows, scimetar slim as
Fugitive fear, little shadows left
For an instant at my feet
Like a horror film,
And then gone.
How can little shadows make so much noise?
And I am no longer safe,
The big I, the ego of me
That could not be touched by war,
That sat typing and unreal
In a world of candlesticks,
Their bright flames dead in the wind
Of plane wings, and I am annihilated;
Only the fugitive
Crouching under tables.