There is a point on every mission
when something must be jettisoned
into the thin, black air.
Nothing likes to be abandoned,
no one likes to be compared.
There is a point when the plan
lifts from our control panels
and shimmers while we go ahead
and stare. How long do we
call the plan the plan after it
disappears? There's no such thing
as a few minutes alone. There's no
such thing as making up your mind
when everything is determined:
the rate of our turning, our distance
from the sun. I followed you here
with my naked eye. You've lost
your white glove. It travels now
like a comet burning up the sky.
Copper Canyon Press
Copyright © 2013 by Lisa Olstein
All rights reserved.
Reproduced by Poetry Daily with permission