Arrival
Some lives fall apart in the bar of an airport
Chili’s. They do. Some lives outrun
their endings, or love themselves
into the earth like a glee-stricken worm.
Grief-stricken is what I wanted to say.
The arrivals gate always streaked
with canned-air wafts of sadness: she is crouched
like a lantern. Moths squint in his throat.
We think we are dolls with halos but we are mud
in such shining cellophane.
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