I’m supposed to talk about something I’ve
learned from airports, the infrastructure
of a war, some wisdom from our approximate
distance,

but I’m distracted by the woman
in the red dress (again). You took me zooming
over South Houston when time permitted
talking cosmic scenery and God, and nuomenons,

that which is the media of all things. The rods
on which the abacus measures. Tectonic plates
and human increments, science and myth and the
backyard fence. Houston always peeled us

like mandarins, you sun-bleached, and I
highly pigmented, flecked and sweating.
You made me crave the letters others had written you.
I tried to dip my fat neck into nothingness.

I sold front row seats for plane tickets, I’ve done a bad thing
more than once or twice, yeah, so can we get back to God
and can you drive me to the departures wing at least
or something? I’m at that time of my life.
I just want to do this already.