though it has little to do
with Paris—a terminal
at the
airport’s edge.
There are no discernible clouds,
just an all-over cover, and a wind
that unstifles the trees.
You want something,
that unasked for movement that comes just in time,
when your life and all that is arrives.
Fuck it
comes out of your mouth,
too loud.
People at the other table turn,
then turn around—
back to smoking,
to the window
where the world is—a bit of brightness
inside the grey, the
planes in a line
and the wind won’t die.
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