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by Derek JG Williams Beneath a blind sun, your plane lands in Arizona. Its wings and tail invisibly flicker. Strangers look up from parking lots, they follow your plane’s path. Its wheels find tarmac gently. You touch down— jolted, glued again to this fat earth. Touchdown! By chance we’ve come to live this way. The pigskin under center; the breath before the snap; the crowd looks on— they believe in the ball’s path. Commercials scroll, flicker in hi-def. I watch TV alone. I’ve watched hundreds of planes crash. I’ve never been to the desert.  photo by David Emitt Adams Derek JG Williams puts words into rows both long and short. He's a graduate of the MFA program at UMass Boston and a 2016 Blacksmith House Emerging Writer. His poems are published or forthcoming in Plume, Best New Poets, Vinyl, Forklift Ohio, Salamander, Prairie Schooner, and New Ohio Review, among others. Derek currently lives in Arizona. Learn more about him at http://www.derekjgwilliams.com.
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