I burned myself on autopilot again;
thinking I knew this route like flame knows gas.
Yet, touch tingles when it turns the engine
like old friends mingle every day they pass.
I’d love to switch on autopilot, but
I need to feel the terrain, to sieve the leaves
spend my time at the tip of the crust
gauge my air, wanderings, gas, and needs.
Air under, air over: hawks know what chickens guess.
Survey our course to purvey our way.
Vision parodies the sun spots’ depths.
I trusted machines,