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Poem · From the Margen catalogue

You park at terminal 4 at four and there are 14 cars

Four in the morning at terminal 4: you get the fourth floor, 320 LED lights over 320 spaces and only 14 cars: 306 empty bays shine like clean teeth. You count them out loud; if you count without opening your mouth, the bays fill up with planes that don't exist. You finish, chalk three crosses on spaces 87, 143 and 302, and sit down to wait for the five-fifteen flight.