Flying to Asia

We pulled window covers tight but sun followed us all the way, sun always there behind dark squares, filling that black tube with blinding white, outside in like a hull breach in orbit rotating day drinking in, day drinking out, Bud Light in in inefficient little cans, out outside but sun and new Bud would be there and we knew the bald flight attendant would take our empty cans and toss them tumbling into yawing wastebaskets away, and that we could sleep it off and land in day, cans emptied and light clapped out, ejected short of Asia, burned out over a ridiculous whistling garbage gyre.

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