At a field trip
to a local factory
that once produced
World War II fighters,
quickly launched
from the broken runway,

we stood around,
in pairs, exposed
holding hands.

I could not keep attention
on the director
or his potted history.

Oliver moved closer.

There was a growing
feeling like the upward
flight of a football
kicked out of the park
on our Sunday knock-around
or those airplanes
taking off

from tarmac, long decayed,
between conception and birth,
impossible to smooth over.


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