In the airport, I saw that blonde had prevailed,
Taking gold over the slivers of sky, of platinum,
Tin hats, of my silver plastic toy that skims
Now, across white caribou hide, sewing shut blue lakes.
The plane’s innards are clad in chain mail.
(Mine are not). The potable air hostesses know this,
They give me dark, medicinal gut-rot. Bilberries:
The cause and the cure. I cradle myself
Beneath a great, sky-borne tree, levitating over Moscow,
Who sleeps still [static] under cloud-sea.
finncargill.com 