Postcard: Ho Chi Minh City (from the air)

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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.

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