Jan G. Otterstrom F.

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POSTSCRIPT

Cinders in my eyes and hair
rattle, click clack, the blur
of farms, closely cut fields
smells of hay mixed with coal
one half century ago, when
do I get off this train, does
my destination have a name?
Today I travel buckled in
aluminum capsules bolted to
enormous jets that roar
amplified beasts in a jungle
soaring us to thin atmosphere
bouncing among the clouds
overlooking wide expanse
a slender pencil, light to see
bright from land or open sea.
When do I get off this plane
does my destination have a name?




ŠJan G. Otterstrom F. October 1, 2011 Costa Rica