almost the same year as television.
It was the invisible mid-century fulcrum,
where our slow blind downslide
into plagues and volcanos began.
Hurricanes and droughts, you name it,
they all began there, in our wanton innocence.
On one of the very first commercial
flights from New York to San Francisco,
Great Gran saw a flower of light hiss
and crackle down the aisle: St. Elmo's fire.
A thing of uncanny beauty, she said.
To her, it was just part of flying's mystery.
At three my grandson has seen greater mysteries.
He plays in the cyber-world every day.
Great Gran lived on a still-immortal planet,
he on one hurtling toward its next rebirth—
a bad-looking baby, poisoned and pocked—
but to him it just looks like the world.
