That dear careless minute
When my transnational imaginaries
Tense around my flash-fiction present.
There was Paris there will be Paris
Paris is not the center of the world.
And I can always, yes, tweet myself away.
(What’s the gender of globalization again?
My nose has some freckles
I once saw an excessively freckled woman
It is surprising I see freckles as lovely)
Wisdom, like the sky, is just how vastness appears to us.
I’ve been in an Airbus (not going to Paris) where
A screen played a camera attached to the nose:
First the runway blazed past,
Then stubborn patterns of stars.
It’s lame after a while
After it crashes on you that
You too are cosmically inclined,
As all flights happen between runways
That are identical.
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