Night Flight to the Holy Land
What travels on metal wings tonight along the sky's lapidary highways knows nothing and all. The clouds like disembodied angels float about in the garments of their enigma. Below, the Earth - vain, vain glitter of the myriad fake jewels we have strung around her neck.
Sometimes the same plane can carry
a new widow and a newly-wed wife -
their cargo of past
earth-weighted grief enclosed in a large wooden box
and winged happiness ringed by a tiny circle of gold,
Soon, in the back of the plane tallit-
wrapped Jews will
start swaying to and
fro like ghosts of
a petrified history.
Perhaps to try and redress the balance
of such incongruous cargo.
Perhaps to atone,
for the sake of us all,
for presumption of metal wings.