There is the sheer spectacle of this falls:
it always plummets and it never dies.
But if you close your eyes
the rush recalls

a dead-on headwind’s steel wool of blare
rebuking an intrusive jumbo jet
so coarsely you forget
the hiss is there,

and static pirating the final station
to notify you, in a lost broadcast,
your journey has at last
reached desolation,

and summer falling from an interposing
old box of Freon as autumnal air
on a recliner chair
as you start dozing.

Just mind your landing from those scenes of zen:
their breathy vastnesses and engines running
come down to a stunning
Shhh again.