essay: #012 DEBRIS ON A HILLSIDE

c. Reuters

I dream.
Of airplanes.
Falling
From.
The sky.

Oxygen masks.
Hanging.
Empty.
At 34,000 feet.

Everything.
Outwards.
Sucked.
Inwards.

While F-16.
Fighter planes.
Ride the wing.

A passenger.
Comes in the form.
Of text messenger:

"Farewell, Cousin.
Here we're frozen...."

Meanwhile...
20 children.
Lie.
Sleeping.

Skin.
Coated with.
Ice.
And.
The.
Seeds
Of
Misfortune.

Moments later...

Debris.
On a hillside.
Blown
To
The four corners.
Of the earth.

RIP.

# transmission ends #