Robert M. McAlmon

From “Flying”

IN pale spaciousness

I blend with subtle infinity.

The wing wires of my plane

Whistle a monotone

That lulls my earthy unrest

To sleep.

The faint blur before me

Of whirring propellers

Soothes my eyes.

I have no objective.

The sky is bare;

The here and there

Have equal values.

There is no ultimate to strive for—

Only higher air.

Thinner and more fair.

My plane sees a star to vault,

But tediously pendulates

In measured expansion

Far below.