Terminals
While the Islanders run savage from the sticky coffee sun
my seeds are at a closing - we see different heavens
and I'm a traveler in this place - my hands manufactured to match my luggage
will you be a comrade? Quiet that little boy, could you?
Show him the air strip, wow him to death.
There are too many tickets
too many tickets left.

In the office they're counting
moving tickets on the monitor
and shuffling envelopes to the drums of my death march
I'm a soldier bloodied on the runway
treading grass and checking my back
exiting in a blur of terror and hope.
The walkway is now ending please look down
the walkway is now ending please look down
look down
look down
look down
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