For the Plane that Landed in the Hudson River

On the way down, you wish you could find
and keep all your days and regret the failure
of not having looked at things carefully enough
when the loudspeaker announces they lost
the engines, and the pilot knows all
his instruments will be wrecked and
the cockpit will be filled with brine, but
his hands still clamor at the controls.
From the wing, the eyes of a dying bird
stares inside, at you, at the passengers,
stiff and glazed. But who can put brakes
on falling things that trail a loose path?
So you hang on to the pendant you wear,
the one with an embossed saint,
to keep away the fire, getting smashed up,
and feeling the hurt. It is the final thought
you think you have. And the plane
veers toward water like a juggler
juggling life and death.