Flying at an altitude of 37,000 feet
I watch
sparkling sequins of cities
headphones on
listening
to David Byrne
who’s burning down the house
in gray slacks and a buttoned-down shirt
close to the back of the plane
doors are open. Boarding passes
float in zero gravity
ticket holders
knock their heads
on cellphones.
Storm the pilot and demand a do-over? No.
Memory is an archive
filled with sinkholes.
Now I get it.
All the clouds look black at night.