what the surroundings do

I see the future from forty-thousand feet
and have this sudden urge to crash,
miles from our destination
and never further from the truth.
the truth is
that I really can distinguish
the birdsong
from the brainwashed hymn,
and that somehow this objectivity
disqualifies me.
so many faces
reflected in that tiny diamond,
so many pairs of eyes
insisting
that I just stay out of the way.