Juneau

Our plane dips down into the clouds
Gray sky-foam clumping at a shore
Tiny windows leave room for dull eyes
To clumsily stab at the mist
But they never make a dent

Then the currents shift
Clouds slide back into another sky
And we see

Dark hills and proud ridges
Glaciers twist like untamed sinews
White whisps gossip with the trees
And snicker about our butter-knife eyes
Our inadequacy to comprehend
This unfathomable impenetrable
Dark pulsing Lovecraftean ocean
From our cotton-poly dock

-T. Weeks
(A response to “Bravo, Paris Exposition“)