Howland Island

Amelia,
you would not believe
how quickly we’ve forgotten
the magic; how humdrum
circumnavigation can be

the clatter
and clink of the drink
cart going by

I have flown, Amelia
over the Kill Devil Hills,
washed my feet in the Straight
of Magellan; what is left

I wonder –

how many times
can you spin
before
toppling
into meaninglessness; please

return

your seatbacks
to their full, upright position
and re-stow any bags for landing

Amelia, sometimes
I dream of Howland island, of my hair
whipping in the wind; the sputter
of the unknown –

swallowing me,
whole.