The wood-carving festivities always
delay travel through the corridors of airports.
We could have begun earlier, but you like the sun
where it is, J.B.S. Haldane, and the pinstripe suits.
Yes, everything is thick with glass. We made it
before, hands on cold silver railings. I thought
you of all people enjoy to count lines.
It must be why we’re standing, unsure about my arms.
That must be why the air conditioners rely on someone else
to change your eyelid nights, reeking of diesel.
We can begin again, but once it’s out of the woodwork
there’s no way to fade back into the splinters.
M. N. O’Brien received his B.A. from Roanoke College, where his work was published in On Concept’s Edge and received the Charles C. Wise Poetry Award. His work was most recently published in SOFTBLOW and Counterexample Poetics. He currently lives in Lexington, Kentucky, constantly risking absurdity in a Ferlinghetti sentiment, playing old folk vinyl records and studying astrophysics and poetry. He feels awkward writing in the third person.