Everything looks better from the air.
You can’t see the holes in things
the cracks, the crisp clap
of a city that was born hungry
angry tawdry proud and lovely
I cover my eyes to what
I do not want to see.
Fork to an eyeball, I write stories
that will never again be spoken
or heard. Who’s to say who’s listening
through the cabin window, the thin,
plastic film? Soon I will descend
into thick stickiness and dread
but for now in the the cold slickness
devoid of grime, bring me metaphors
and I will hold them up to the light.