in the moments
after no sleep and
too-much-inspiration - the
food drinks and good t.v.
long gone, the
logical procession of
conversation worn threadbare -
we exchange glittering
aliases, and suddenly:
these strangers feel as


as folds of fabric brushing skin;
or the names that sparkle and
reverberate through my skull,
glass edge blood draw slip,
the christening of concepts
difficult to trust or believe in

we are all runaways,
no exit, no maps.
pockets filled with
ticket stubs and
we can't read the
signs here, and yet

i feel connected.
i touch the
stars gold-chained
to my neck:
like history
or maybe
like certainty.

if i didn't get on that plane
would i have a chance
to make you smile?
this is me: an untranslatable
joke lining up to crash
through the sky.