A poem

The pilot lowers the flaps and the plane slows
as if pausing to take one last deep breath
of the chilled air of the heavens before wading out
into and then bellying onto the stale smell
of the city, and holding that breath for as long
as it can, the mushy gray trees of the suburbs
rising up from the bottom. And then it lets go
of that breath with a rush, spreads out its wings,
and lets itself slide, with all the passengers
holding on to its shoulders, down the slick slope
into the depths of whatever is waiting.