There’s thirty-two thousand feet
between Jack’s window seat
and where the Colorado river
splits the Grand Canyon
like a wending crack in a brick.
There’s six thousand feet from ridge to river
and he read somewhere that sixty or so people
have fallen straight to the bottom.
Whether the number’s right or not,
he doesn’t really care.
On the screen two-and-half feet
in front of his face, Bradley Cooper
and Jennifer Lawrence’s bodies
twist and twirl and intertwine
intimately, and, ultimately,
five feet from the camera,
their lips follow suit.
In his hand, two feet from his eyes,
his finger lingers on the page where
the Ingenious Gentleman of La Mancha
spurs his horse and tilts at the windmills—
the ones he swore were hulking giants
just moments before.
“Enchantment,” he says.
Five feet away from him,
his flustered squire insists they
were windmills the whole time.
Six inches to Jack’s right,
the sounds of The Smiths
shoot from an iPod
to the pierced ears of the girl
in the middle seat of the plane.
Two inches from those ears
are great green eyes
and Jack knows they’re green
because for a moment
his stare and hers melt into one.
And then the moment disappears,
and their stares disconnect,
and Jack’s eyes redirect
to the Grand Canyon
split like a brick
thirty-two thousand feet below.