We came down above the houses In a stiff curve, and At the edge of the Paris airport Saw an empty tunnel -- The back half of a plane, black On the snow, nobody near it, Tubular, burnt-out and frozen. When we faced again The snow-white runways in the dark No sound came over The loudspeakers, except the sighs Of the lonely pilot. The cold of metal wings is contagious: Soon you will need wings of your own, Cornered in an angle where Time and life like a knife and fork Cross, and the lifetime in your palm Breaks, and the curve of an aeroplane's track Meets the straight skyline. The images of relief: Hospital pyjamas, screens round a bed A man with a bloody face Sitting up in bed, conversing cheerfully Through cut lips: These will fail you sometime. You will find yourself alone Accelerating down a blind Alley, too late to stop And know how light your d**h is; You will be scattered like wreckage, The pieces every one a different shape Will spin and lodge in the hearts Of all who love you.