04.30.2008

Aviators (a poem by Jon Anderson)

We learned, and slowly, only
that we fell in the high spiral

of confusion. The millionth run–
and now our lives unwound.

Well, we had always had bright flak at heart.
And when we stalled our bomber under

the new moon, and emerged–who could have known?
In that music dangle jukebox angels

fed us their sweet compassionate bread.
Our bellies grew round as the red moon,

and we starved. Who could survive
desire? They have wired

our wild hearts for sound. We are falling down
forever toward your blue receding town.

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