Terminal Moderne

Mother Reilly’s Daughter! Trompe l’oeil Ale! Aphasic Skywalk!
Night at the hub pub, microbrews and boutique pinots –
In its throes,
Does one ever hear the Mädchen cry from the woods at the edge of the
           tarmac?

The artwork is meant to mute us, is it?
Large-scale cibachromes, mobiles, canvases –
A young couple circulates here indefinitely, gizmo in limp fingers,
          mentally en vacances.

So what terminal is this?
Groping the railing on the mezzanine, where fouetté is inscribed in the
          light fixtures, tutu in the mesh scaffolds, an old man almost
          slips.
Does it invite conversation?
I don’t know; it’s conversation for other people; as when Milton depicts
          the tête-à-tête between Adam and the angel, but reproduces
          not a word.

Passengers, please proceed to Gate P.
I’d never supposed the architect’s true Lucifer is gravity.
He’s seen what it does to plaster rosettes, shingles, women’s flesh.
Shall we say his efforts here are not in vain?
Melancholy can’t find depth in even a carpet pile –
As when morning mist weeps across a fuselage and, oh, Mother
          Reilly’s Daughter,
Untingling aileron!