Flight

The airport wants my shoes.
At last I see the trapdoor in the soles
toggling down the x-ray ramp.
My shapes have never shone like this.
My whole life lights up in vials and doses.

When I fly, I fly entire and abandoning.
The animal lies down with the mineral -
a leather belt curls around my mints and keys.
At the threshhold, a man draws his detector
down my spine, that hinge, the leash
that grounds me.

His convex glass magnifies my need, though
he gets too close to see the blue fuse inside.
He'll never leave the earth; the machine
will never see the seams of an overloaded suitcase
rip with wishes, rent as a lost continent.