Count the images in a Kristine Ong Muslim poem. "The Pilot." Go on.

Turner.  Who else?

& today I was led to this poem. (Led how? Alls I can say is, I held my hand out to the goddess of chance and expedience. She embraced it, almost gently -- her nail dug into my palm -- guiding it to waters of luck, random but never coincidental. I'd kind of hinted the poet's name before we began our journey.) Kristine Ong Muslim is a poet of many wonders, "The Pilot." among them. That first image, the six-month tests, the flight plan -- foreboding, all of it.

The Pilot.

The sky is a bed nailed to the ceiling; it turns

when I sleep. I do not think about it that much

these days. It may show up in my psychological

tests, the ones I have to take every six months.

Most of the time I imagine the plane growing

outward, throttling the last breath of a giant tin can,

thickening the fog as it arches from takeoff;

the path of air lengthening in its wake.

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by Kristine Ong Muslim, read more here