Stephen King just told the New York Times on their Sunday Book Review what his favorite poem is.

My favorite poem is “Falling,” by James Dickey. Published in 1967, its delirious language, coupled with a clear narrative, make it a precursor to Dickey’s novel “Deliverance,” published three years later. The poem is audacious, sensuous and completely beautiful. It’s also as neat a parable of the human condition as has ever been written.

Falling

BY JAMES L. DICKEY

A 29-year-old stewardess fell … to her
death tonight when she was swept
through an emergency door that sud-
denly sprang open … The body …
was found … three hours after the
accident.
—New York Times

The states when they black out and lie there rolling    when they turn

To something transcontinental    move by    drawing moonlight out of the great

One-sided stone hung off the starboard wingtip    some sleeper next to

An engine is groaning for coffee    and there is faintly coming in

Somewhere the vast beast-whistle of space. In the galley with its racks

Of trays    she rummages for a blanket    and moves in her slim tailored

Uniform to pin it over the cry at the top of the door. As though she blew

The door down with a silent blast from her lungs    frozen    she is black

Out finding herself    with the plane nowhere and her body taken by the throat

The undying cry of the void    falling    living    beginning to be something

That no one has ever been and lived through    screaming without enough air

Still neat    lipsticked    stockinged    girdled by regulation    her hat

Still on    her arms and legs in no world    and yet spaced also strangely

With utter placid rightness on thin air    taking her time    she holds it

In many places    and now, still thousands of feet from her death she seems

To slow    she develops interest    she turns in her maneuverable body

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