Airports

(Rilke’s Last Flight)

We walk inside huge jewels, ropes of
white tourmalines, square-faceted;
we straggle, silent, lonely, lost –

The varied forms of faces thaw
from fears or sudden loves, melt with
unwelcome passions, freeze again;

Then, waiting in black fields of chairs,
we dream of those we nearly knew:
we breathe the sun, we feel the air.

[LAX – SFO, IAD – LAX, 11/4-12/30/90]