Flight

When I left London 

                      to stew in its juice;
the swill of a hot summer Friday,
 

helicopters like fat flies,
ran impenetrable missions
under vapour trails left
 

by planes 

stuffed with 

the lucky ones,
seeking drier crotches
and amenable places
in which to sip Rose
 

or ouzo.

I travel well. I have perfected 

the science of the capsule wardrobe.

Lighter than a balsa wood float,  
I’m jetsam in the jet stream,

selecting the finest wines 
          known to humanity
or at least, the least 
          appalling wines 

known to the airline industry,
 
whose sleek and glamorous majesty
got pinned, 

like a moth, 

to the balance sheet
and now degrades,

it’s powdery wings a shadow, 
                           or an imprint,

or the suggestion of a leaf 
on a recently dried autumn pavement.

These are the images I stored for you,
because I knew, 
there would come a day when 
35,000 feet above all arguments
 
and several glasses down,
surrounded by all the books
you said I had to read,
 
the urge would take me,
to hold you again,
in words as hot
as tears.