In the middle of the spy thriller, the girl
companion trussed up in the back, mouth
duct-taped, tries to use her rapidly blinking eyes
to tell the agent she is receiving urgent messages
from the dead. But of course he doesn’t notice,
preoccupied as he is with wrestling the plane’s
controls from the heavyset man wearing a gold
pinky ring in the shape of a skull. The engine
catches fire and they begin to fall. It is always
most picturesque at such moments: cold sweep
of tree-lined mountains, and beyond their border,
cities of glass lit up with the glow of fire-
bombs, the dull sound of bridges detonating.
What are those smoke-like shapes lifting
from the ground if not the souls of the once
sentient, now gone? Smell of burnt clove eerie
in the streets where every hand made
the universal gesture of a plea.


In response to Via Negativa: TV dinner.

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