The trees distract my attention and remember me as a passing,
as do the open windows and doors, and a flashing bicyclist
and a line of schoolkids on a rope between their tenders.
I move uneasily across a bridge, my hair gusting.
I’ve forgotten my little hat with the brim so I fret a little.
. . . when the Rapture comes, they will be taken up
only halfway: forever suspended in the middle of the clouds
as the checkerboard earth and the vast blank oceans
revolve beneath, as cryptic patterns left by intercontinental jets
slowly fade away against the blue-black dome above.