Paris

Spat out, back muscles twisted,
from the stale saturated belly of a plane
numbed
fed into a Parisian past machine
fed out as a strand
to match their standards

a sudden shift
no red earth,
waking in the cold frosted farm night
blinking in the early morning quiet
a sudden grey humidity
constant motion
heavy air
queues everywhere

but a choice around every corner
the ability to think of no one but myself
no one to look after
walking
being
the forgotten ability
to just exist.