He asks if there are fish on the moon, waits
for a reply, then turns back toward the window,
we are mid-Atlantic going in the wrong direction,
it’s the middle of the night, so people are sleeping,
lights turned down low, engines pulsing a single
hummed note, someone coughs, a drowsy, soft
bell rings, the stewardess moves between mulled rows,
even her footfalls sound muffled, again the question,
his mother leans forward, says something I can’t
quite hear, the plane banks, just enough to show
a distant sunrise on the far horizon, each porthole
a momentary blaze of gold, at journey’s end
we will disperse like a shoal frightened of new light,
all save one, who closes his eyes, begins to dream.