It’s just the future. We can’t hear it
here. A midnight rain, detected by our
moon-white arms. Slow dances around a
secret pole, a dangerous dip in a sea.
That’s all it is. It’s less than seven.
My playlists, haunted by the aromas of
Hoogvliet. Stars to guide the airplane.
Gliding over the jet-black facilities,
night’s postcard curling at the edges.
Soporific navigation charts, a radio’s
tuned to easy. Headphones stolen from
another airline, useless here. Charity.
It’s just the future. Nothing happens
now. Desire hasn’t even been invented.

Express yourself