I wish you’d written when you sent, But you constructed in algorithm, In things that point, In things that find. The tarmac still reaches for the open, Through darkness, For desolate scrub that lies, in semi-circle, As serpent. Waiting with open jaws. You’d understand if you could see, if you could feel it But I notice that each day passes like the one before And the one before And the one before. Nothing ever flies around here, Nothing may ever fly again, But I like to think that if they did, if they could, Planes might feel as lost as I do, without batons to guide them You wouldn’t like it here, but I would like if you were here And here is not this place, this stone, neglected flight, abandoned sound, auditory distortions, Maple Tree Café, Boyd Mountain, sights, sounds, isolation, lingering specters of old plane turbines, the lisp of ghosts built from Doppler effect Here is give, here is try You are wings, and you are air, the wisp of solid catalyst, the bruise and scrape of land that wraps around haunted blacktop A vision of decay You vanish more and more with every passing sun
