I saw my house beneath as we increased
our altitude, between hotel and field.
Mt. Shasta ruled the picture for at least
a fifth the flight, and when our arc was ceiled,
we bellied down and I began to slow;
my rate of living ratcheted three clicks.
A pulse reduced becomes impulse, I know,
now I’m relaxed enough to want to list
the things I’d like to do before I die.
I’m gliding to consider what regret
I will avoid and what I want to try
while I’ve a thread to ravel. I forget
what used to move me, but I think I can
discern a dream and no, it’s not a man.