The President Flies Over

Aloft between heaven and them,

I only babble landscape—what staunch, vicious trees,
what cluttered road, slow cars. This is my

country the way it was gifted me—victimless, vast.
The soundtrack buzzing the air around my ears
continually loops ditties of eagles and oil.
Aroused instrumentals channel theme songs,
speaking
what I cannot.

I can stay hooked to heaven,
dictating this blandness.
I don’t ever have to come down.
My flyboys memorize flip and soar.
They’ll never swoop close enough
to resurrect that other country,

to give name
to tonight’s dreams darkening the water.

I understand that somewhere it has rained.

.