swarm

It is sadness that creeps up on me

from the pit of my stomach.

Sadness like a swarm,

and it is only morning.

The day waits – as long as glass.

And hard somehow. I shall

face the three planes and

where to place my body.

At the airport gate I laid my chest

along legs, along carpet, along patterns of grit.

I took photos in the dark that gave us nothing:

boom sounds of fuselage hitting out at space.