your plane is late because of the snow
sloshy orbit
where I was
in my secret identity
just a moment ago
jets suffer thoughts
contrails in trees shift
relating their shadows tethered to weather
shadows of letters being
written
while I work on a few breaths considered pastimes outside the
terminal
healthy friction of contrails skywriting smoke signals
out jet stream
from up there all this looks silly
harbors
billboards
nets
|
