I’m gliding over Hudson Bay.
The engines pulse rhythmically,
slightly out of sync.
Far below, the late ice glimmers
I’m not looking through the screen,
I am the screen.
The Sun bakes freshly fallen rain off the jungle.
Uncountable insects roar.
The air is heavy but empty.
I’m breathless as I pace up the trail.
I’m not looking through the screen,
I am the screen.
White walls, white floor, white lights.
A masked face, only the eyes.
“Once the anesthetic is working
you can come in with her, ok?”
I’m not looking through the screen,
I am the screen.
The air is perfectly sill, I can’t tell if its warm or cool.
Overhead, constellations hang, half recognised.
The Moon shimmers, a low, bright slither.
“What’s that star, daddy?”
I’m not looking through the screen,
I am the screen.
