We move around the airplane, telling old stories to each other. You have an aria in your left hand and I have to touch it to hear it. A propeller keeps us aloft even as it hacks the sky to fragments and sows them to the land. A shaving cream smeared across the sky. The rotor of a turbine harvests blue from the air to keep us gliding. Nothing mortal should rely on such a process, cutting of heaven's hair. House antennas once launched their spindles and spokes weaving intangible transepts to church themselves above our minds. In imitation, my branches radiate to a congregation of grass. Sometimes I even think of the sun's ornamental blaze, prickled with triangle swords pointing ever inward, stabbing through the heart’s core. But the lambent moon refracts its cumulus ghost towards emptiness, causing all falling things to fall even more. This is the tree's needle. It will not inject or draw blood but tremble slimly in the groove of the wind’s shuffling. The singing sigh of the engine turning in the flood a watered-down symphony that the cloud is always muffling.