A woman looks at us from her wheelchair,
speaking a language no one understands.
Behind her, planes glide by as if empty,

and I wonder when I last did anything
for its own sake. A blue knob of sky
turns gray. Over the intercom, a disembodied

voice offers money to anyone willing to wait.
Where we land, smoke screens
the mountains; the sun blisters.

I enter a sepia world the color of things past
and wonder if glancing back would mean the end
of faith, the loss of promised things.