avalon

below lies camelot and all that follows
below roams the concrete mammoth that
bellows lies and trumpets oh brass blast
fast track industrial shine you get in my eye

the window's half-notched
air is full cool blast damn
does this cabin get cold

with every plane i board
i get a little bit old

the cars all move at equal speeds
which must be the same trick
that the earth plays on space

i can see clear through the navel
of the sky we bravely plunge
through the wet lint

and feel the falling

i am the ant
my little airborne carapace
glued to my tiny ant-head
sewn by milky threads
of ivory like string cheese
or like silk 

spun by a web of geese