You're used to turbulence
half ice, half more gunpowder
and the windshield reeking
from medicine bottles

—it's contagious! even without gloves
you need more height —these airpockets
set out the way mountain climbers
bring back their dead fingers

and the road has given up
trying to heal, infected with the stench
that made it safely through the frostline
and each year this time.

You're not there now
though the rain has stopped
and you rewind the mileage
trying to remember their names

—day after day each Spring these trucks
almost in formation, engines on
drop the asphalt and lime
on a hole lying motionless

—this dark foam over the runway
has made the planes invisible
the tires torn open, almost empty
the wings ripped down off a map

that shows the sky in daylight
and under these fleece-lined sleeves
pulling back on the wheel
—everything else is moving forward.