By George Moore
The flight was fine
but for the plane, it’s wonder gone,
fell through the blue like a blade
and no one spoke
or a flame caught them up
and burnt them whole
so the tongues were all that remained
when we landed
full of ourselves and bleeding
on a ground that was broken
open for those who can never arrive
and the wonder returned
by way of the word
spoken between unknown individuals
transported away
Clutching at Straws 