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.