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The rain is slower at airports but the planes are wary --even here you turn around in the street as if their wings are reaching from behind and strangers asking, "What's your name now?" In this hangar the air still warm with bread --some mother has forgotten her child's name is calling you with her belly sticky from blood, shrapnel, the fuselage sheared in half --these planes lined up for some runway, for the kisses :the skies who love you. You think it couldn't be. You visit terminal after each terminal, expect something to blossom, lift you into air into some song from around a dark table --what you hear are your cheeks brushed by birds whose hind legs touch down on the roadways --you come here to stay, lay on your back so you can hug more and more sky --your elbows curling back, being born and every one turns, gets out the way --you come here to leave and this rain before it dies at its loudest, calls you into the sea taking form under your arms the way a sheet covers the dead, warms them and already the air a shine from your new name.
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