It could be there, or there –
our collective qualms manifest
as we wonder how an object
as large as an airliner could
disappear into airspace. Or
lose itself beneath the
remorseless waves: "lead
weight in a fish's gut." I think
of Haruki Murakami's book,
The Elephant Vanishes, taught
in class. Did I not advise
my students that the beauty
of poetry is not what's there,
but what's not there? The
mystery of what lurks beneath
the lines or at skilfully trimmed
endings is beautiful, but it is
apart from the mystery of 239
lives left suspended in endless
speculation. After all, what
meaning can be deduced from
the stealth of deviant flight path
under the radar? The beauty
of silence, or absences – it is
apart from the ocean's dead calm.
Or static air. Or a cloud that,
despite seeding, refuses to stir.