They’re in the air. And the air is also above them…and the air is also above the air, then above that air, less air, and then through that lessening, no air, and the Above is more like an Around: there’s air inside in which they’re enplaned, there’s air inside them in their gasps, groans, moaning, prayers, and then there’s air outside, though that that separates the two airs is anyone’s guess: this separation, whatever it is, whichever’s it is, whether of heaven or earth, is the shell after shelling, the husk or the hulling, a movable mechitza, stay with me…the indigestible tubing of an unctuous salami slung through space & time; they’re the thick mixedmeat stuffed inside the inedible, indelible, tubing; they’re the nuts inside the shell, rattling around, the seeds inside the husk. Hulled. There’s one air on one side and there’s another air on the other, the air inside laden with virus, heavy with flu, stifling, I can’t breathe, I’m choking…the air outside’s pure and open, but they need the air inside, they need it to live. If pressure’s lost, oxygen will fall. Rubberized masks. Don’t be afraid. Don’t be at all. Make sure to fasten yours first, and only then those of the kinder.
They’re in the air inside in the outside air, with air above that and above that air less air, then above that air lessening itself into no air and then above that around, only space; they’re wandering, sort of, kinda, not astray or any other species of lost, they know their ultimate destination, terminus, the end territory, Niemandsland’s ever, the antipode poles…it’s printed on their tickets, what’s not printed’s the route: the route is known and the route is unknown, it’s known to be unknown; there’s an ocean to arch; they’ve risen in the air, then they’ve unleavened, evenedout: they’ve left the light and will leave it again later that day, only to…so long, too long, forever, never; they’re fixed like stars, they’re unfixed like stars falling; they’re migratory snowbirds flown east, the wrong direction, don’t squawk, opposite, gone opposed; they’re schooled fishes, scattering return with a flap of the tail; they’re shooting here, slingshotted there, through wisps of precipitate, high and thin nimbi, flying an arc through the arcless air — out over the ocean, and to the Other Side.
