by Alice Miller

In time all cities blur and connect
as each street remembers
another, remembers the downward
pressure on your temple
as the plane rises, rises, as the lights
of one city are gurgled by fog, and what’s left
is one more night between time zones.

What glow here. What unbreakable seams.

You know the earth, like your body, can’t take this,
won’t last, and yet tonight you need too much to get home.
What else do you need too much?
Another plane slips across darkness before the cloud shifts and again
a city – its networked wide grids, grips of colour, unreal green
of some outskirts’ stadium before that black cloud pours back in.

Did you use your time on earth to save
what you wanted? Did you use anyone
the way you should? What song
will you sing as the light leaves,
as the mask’s lowered over your eyes?