Cloud Cover.

I had forgotten what it's like to fly And quietly shoot up through the icy sky, Through candid air; and blink through portholes, spying Land as flat as maps below, lying Green and skewbald, ribboned by a plan, Seeing the error-patterns subsidized by man, Clearly shown to such a poor detective Cheated boldly from this peak perspective. There lies the world, spread firm, ingenuous: And yet, poor brain, how you ride papoose On my bones, surveyor of the obvious, Incapable of picking what you choose.