I don’t write poetry
poetry doesn’t write me
you can say we are even
but we are not even
we are not even close
although we stumble on each other sometimes
somewhere in the Midwest
trying to catch the last red-eye flight
to Portland
it’s just coincidence that night
those purple foggy clouds
those flickering lights on the prairie
and us on the same row
like two giant insects in the blue light
of the screens
we can at least try to simulate a dialogue
but none of us is brave enough
and the air is so dry and black
inside our mouths
only our brains desperately gasping
for the cold night sky