For an instant, I get a too-brief peek
at an enormous psychedelic hot-pink sun
crowding out a fleet of ugly, sleek
steel-and-concrete slabs on the horizon
through the windows on my left. On my right
the glass rectangle of an airport hotel
is an outsized IMAX, all neon coral
with the last of the sun’s reflected light.
Whom do I thank? My Delta pilot,
for landing my plane forty minutes early
in this dizzy crossfire of light on light?
Or the trigger-happy showoff on artillery,
fending off the Newark Airport twilight
with fusillades of gold (my strength, my light)