18.

poet feel it

18.

 

poet—feel it here—this my underbelly

and this, my cowling—underneath it the big mouth

centrifugal compressor forcing air into gas-lung-awe—the

agony of moving all these bodies from the cemetery of one

metropolis to another through the cataract

of the sky—all these dancers—the long-azure-ribbons, stator vanes, the twirling

black and white nosecone—the coiled flowers of it twisting her

hair laid out in pleats of layover-dream—these idle turbines were meant to bring us closer

together I want to move you I want

to move

you surf of red

blazers and airfare but you’ve mounted me here

outside

the dead aerospace museum.

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