On the night before, I slept very little to ensure I’d sleep the next night. That next night held a flight–an entire night mixed up with invisible hands batting our poor vessel about the sky.

Piano sound carries itself
winking uponaround three flights of interwoven logs:
    Trees petrified in
    preservation of paint and
    stoic service.
It floats into round-edged crevices,
fitting log upon, in log.

By morning I’d managed to clock, at most, two hours of catnaps. Crossing over an arc of land, through turbulence that mimicked some other arc of land (as though clouds mold themselves into, on such topology). I’d been packaged and unpacked in regular patterns.

Wooden beams cross more than the ceiling
across ceiling and walls and floors.

We all walked through the same long glass hallway and felt the sharp bite of cold between plane and hall. Came to some curves and went down stairs. I know the place was marked well or I wouldn’t have found my way.

Logs interconnect.
Stacked and crossed,
angling into the ceiling.
Through gaps in wooden railings:
				seeing Couples
play cards, chess, other games, laughing sometimes.

I think they might’ve needed a passport though. Pass port. A flight as port? Port to something. The customs room maybe. Was this a customs room, human port?

Families sit,
children exploring a hexagonal circumference
of fireplace,
roars, placidly.
They re-meet at intervals.
Toward the ceiling, heat climbs
in lax pursuit of piano notes.

This flesh and blood foreshadow–a special trick, and I started to guess about, and my limited memory of spoken French. It was my turn to pretend I’d woken from a full night’s sleep.

A man sits on a striped chair,
(red shirt rumpled in relaxation).
He'd have grand children.
His white-haired wife walks to the chair
		by his side and sits.
The two gesture to each other
before opening books--
dice tumble. Hockey sticks, skis, people pass through.

Quiet corners lack people. Sitting with a dim lamp to my left, It yellows the green marble table and reflects my white coffee cup. Nice white–best showing of coffee bean brown, barely separable from enfolding beams of wood–note.

Observing
is outside time
though the reflection
of woods
cradles all of us
before passage.

We also signed up for a cruise. It was a green cruise we were told–meaning we’d travel through forests, both amazon and alpine. After packing a suitcase each and a carry-on bag, we boarded the “boat” or “ship” or “cruise liner.” It left from Sain Canscorf, a secret port they said. As the development of our travel continued, it became clear that Sain Canscorf is fairly well-known for frequent buyers of fat, death green information. A steward took our bags and checked our tickets. Simply punching holes at their carelessly chosen edges. On board we found seats in a fluorescent lit alcove of crammed families. Poor enough to afford tickets. They were heading to a destination and this wasn’t a joy ride.

When the camels didn’t come right out and say it, we knew there would be trouble. It would be a long way to home for the children. Mothers drizzled stale wine on their scalps to soothe tremoring concepts and endear the latent passions. A small house wouldn’t cost much in the forest (at least they told themselves that) and soon the boat would arrive. It took forever to find a post office; think of culture getting ahead all the time and those automobiles blankly facing the sea, windshields like eyes that gloss waves in hightense panorama. We walked down from the post office, extra stamp in hand, and feel liberated in the fell of air rebreathed by the ocean. Must keep it short.