I dreamt of travel disruption last night
and haven’t woken up since; know that though,
a whole murder of crows hidden along
the hemline of a coat was not the
reason I was late, nor were black stamps spat
out through mirrored windows, panes unmoored from
frames in the wake of two late goodbyes: one
said at a check-in desk disguised as point
A; the second, central, wrapped around an
orbit of children where they now lay.
This news- again, it is news- is an air-
bag of ears, of interviews, listening
so we don't have to, colouring pallor
in post so the ghosts of aftermath do
not go unnoticed when we believe it
may not of have happened.
I'm going to buy out the sky right of
tragedy and skywrite,
vandals of companionship are not tolerated below this message, or above.