Fascicle [16]

sixteen

Then the plane lands without delay.
Sirens fill the head, what is called the mind.
Authority boards, concealing weapons,
checking passports. Soon this will be over.
Exiting, I keep my shoes on and schlep.
Seattle’s become my destination,
not Albuquerque; Paris behind me
with Rome, Odessa, and Glasgow, Belfast,
what do I know? who pack bombs, ignite them,
die with the rest of white America.
What you see is what you get: WYSIWYG.
Who am I? Nada is what nada does.
Skies overcast in the Carolinas;
like here, rain threatens. Where will snow fall?

(19 October 2013)

copyright 2013 by Floyce Alexander