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The great clouds are pressed,
like furrows, cut and plowed over
by great silver planes,
while within vacant eyes stare thru
frosty portholes etched by hot
breath upon cold lucid glass.

Those left behind lay on their backs,
upon hard brick alleys,
Staring up at the white vapor trails
that cross-hatch the blue abyss,
their eyes playing tick, tack, toe, with
the roaring weave of big jumbo jets.

They dream the same dreams
of arriving in bodies draped with gold,
but they are only wearing their imaginations.

Somehow we will all be together in those
black gondolas of death......never the less,
you had better hold my hand...
and kiss me too....because I'm going
to leave you......