Facing westward, it is obvious
that every plane flying towards
the sunset must fade into
grey lightlessness, as lines

swoon into the smoke that is air
over a bluelined horizon.
Mountains, sheltered
by absence of wind, regress

into pushing upward, towards
whatever ends fall placated
to means, to the sum of all averages.
Bottoms of fat duck bellies

shining sweet oil skinpink
blushing, coy again by flight,
ending journeys in short
wingflaps crossed whispering,

an upward glance. They know,
with some clock-ticking
madness, that any day must end;
it has always been justly

promised, a covenant with sleep.
Until then, sun is met again
by shadows by the fuselages of planes
winding down their motors

like any love, or hate, fading
towards distant places,
never reached, never realized.