FITCH

Sailing high above the Atlantic, the roar of twin jet engines pushes the sun farther and farther behind. Through the porthole the horizon bisects sheets of blue into air and water. Rorschach splotches of white clouds stretch into invisibility and refracted light causes me to squint faintly at nothing in particular. Headphones repeat the same old music. The songs that are true are the songs they don’t play: I’m leaving on a jet plane, here I go again on my own, and so on.