The accessory, zipped up,
awaits the blink-off.

Redacted, this could
just end up one jet-lagged lyre.

Keep soul, big stuff in the overhead
administration, says trolley dolly.

Here is what is: a suspicious package
with attendant implications.

It's none of my personal vertex,
but we're psyched for another

sexy spin, another hook
to hang civilisation on, like Equator.

Beyond allotted legroom,
degree of reclination and those

damp hot towels, we rise
and fall, aside from such plenitude,

terminal or tarnation.
Gazing out this sentimental window

into pitch dark, yanking soul
out of you . . . to winnow these aisles

or suffuse every spore . . .
that's what it should do, shouldn't it?

If he can't quite define it,
what hope the rest of us?

It isn't the blue dress,
which doesn't lie. It's in the bag.

It is. Don't get me wrong -
I like righteous peanuts and hot towels

that come all over my face,
the subject already taxiing

to a softly tick and what's that slipping
from its side? A whiff? It's time.

Hold that nip while the gentlest,
quietest one casually pulls a tiny red pin.