Sparkling sequins of cities
creviced in the slip of mountains
I’m listening to David Byrne
flying at an attitude of 37,000 feet he’s burning down the house
in gray slacks and a buttoned-down shirt
not far from the back row
doors are opening, but I can’t find
the remote, not at this height.
Storm the pilot and demand a do-over? No.
Memory is made of this,
a mutating commodity
ruffling my mind with fog.
All the clouds look black, especially at night.