I think of the man I’ll meet
in New York. Below me
ribbons of white cloud stretch
through mountainous terrain, pull thin
like sea foam that dissolves
in crevices of a rocky shore
as the tide ebbs.
We fly through air pockets that remind
my hands to press down the map in front of me,
smooth numbers and letters that pinpoint
places I will visit.
Libraries, book stores, coffee shops.
I trace tiny images that mark these territories,
trace my future, my past, my present.
The plane rocks left, banks right.
We head into LaGuardia.