THE TERMINAL MY BED

I fall asleep like a landing plane.
Only ending causes planes to land.
And the world exists even when they’re not supervising from above.
And when I’m sleeping.
Planes, they also sometimes sleep, at the airport.
Cars sleep (but don’t yet fly). Their sleep is disturbed
by our laziness.
Whereas planes are awakened by a need to transcend boundaries,
my sleep is an attempt to defend the boundaries of the body.
Fire will land a plane with an unpredictable ending.
And me, it will enflame upwards,
preventing me from falling
into the terminal my bed.



The plane landed on an island – on a Band-Aid over the wound.
The island is drowning in its surrounding water.
Like a cruise ship sinks in a tub.
And I now have an underground city.
And a plane, which in its shattered sadness, became a submarine.

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