Suds almost slide down celestial bodies in the
heaven of Starry Night. I hear the echo
through them of ancient and glorious epochs.
Now is a different age. The sun is new, diaphanous,
its rays streaking through our modern era
like scepters.
The thoughts of revolt and despair throb within the boy’s
torso inside the airplane. The mother points out the
sun-threads to him. But he is slowly feeling the
skeleton of his curse, and the drip of semantics
smoldering on her lips. A docile shadow of the
fuselage covers the burn in his small heart.
The sun is radiant and beautiful through the eons
of suffering — from bygone days to this private era,
where bodies are transported across conveyors in airports.
Sobs are suffocated or expire when glazed dreams carry
humans in their gelid arms through the
signposts of their trajectories . . .