Eyjafjallajökull

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.