We can't ever fly with silt in our wings,
or in our lungs, so we hold our breath
when wind mates with ash and makes clouds of dust.
Grounded again, our bones are steel,
at least, but everyone on the wrong side
of their oceans is counting and recounting the grains of salt
à la plage y la playa, everyone is finally
buying a converter, nobody's cell phone
works in this fucking country and the keyboards are confusing,
with accent marks and punctuation in
all the wrong places. And everyone really
just wants to go home but they'll have to board a ship or something
because the skies are down,
but the world is still up
and without our drones they can hear the bees humming.