Dirigibles

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Crisscrossed again, the golden, gloaming sky,
in the eye of my mind, by dirigibles,
knowing, in some grander timeline, still glide
those silent giants, indivisible

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from flight, itself. What cunning of reason
once filled the wind with titans from Rio,
to Frankfurt, to Manhattan? What treason,
what envy, cast them down? From far below,

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I chart their course—through hardships, to the stars.
Per aspera ad astra. Every myth
shall fill its form. And from the abattoirs
of history, a ship reforged will drift.

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Ironclad orcas, shining in the sun,
halfway between what was and what’s to come.