We understand the anxieties of the belly-gunner
even as we ignore them:
his reports made strange and mournful
by their passage through the taut parcel string
to the Campbell's condensed milk tin
cupped to my co-pilot's chapped and throbbing ear.
'Something about the world having disappeared,'
reports my co-pilot over the engine's chudder.
'A mindscape of luminous fish... faces of ex-lovers,
fifty-feet wide, reproachful... warnings
emblazoned on the clouds:
WIPE THE CAUL FROM YOUR EYES, MY BLOODIED LAMB
FLIGHT IS A KIND OF DEBT
TYRONE POWER IS DEAD'
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