Arcing

Arc:
South to North with a little french curve at the end.
So high, so white. never seeming to turn
In my presence, trailing a ruled soft line
Spreading, erasing itself, slowly.
I know it is not truly flying straight,
More like the path a silver memento
Draws up its necklace, like the route
Of my dog, his three useful legs
Creating their own fly-by,  a little tacking.

Ark:
It is 6:22 and I watch from the far end of the field,
Motionless it seems, but dropping ,
Little antecedent puffs.
At the gate the passengers emerge- in twos.
I could be Noah, all these pairings.
But my eyes search for that one, that
Lone creature that will make us even.
She is the last one.
It seems like it's been that long, Noah.
A little storm has been brewing in me too, Noah.
And now I began to rain, just a few drops...

Arc:
I don't own a pair  of welding goggles,
But I imagine these sleeved gloves
Will have to do.
It's hard to tell from which end
This small chord of light began.
Now it is a bridge, no one remembering
From which end these builders came first.
No matter, I can't look upon this brightness alone.
But together, we pass a piece of
Broken smoked glass between us,
Watching ourselves smile into
That now bearable brightness,
Lovers sharing an eclipse...

For Laura