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Keegan Lester

The Topography of Airports



a second time.


doesn’t feel so bad when saying it.


a direction towards:


we are nowhere.


we raveled into Iowa,


re-ravel into Johannesburg or almost


anything, as handfuls of finger paint.


before home was a girl scout’s malaria


shaped merit badge,


everything posing as music.


before I’d ever seen stars, I wished


upon palm trees


bent by the wind,


that one day they too could fall


and be strange.


easy to confuse for a foreign city:


here, heart also means feet


when waiting & waiting on until then


to happen, & I’ve forgotten where…


someone else’s native tongue


from my mouth, soft


as I could speak &


as long as I could outrun furrows


when the water was bad


in West Virginia & because the water


is still bad in West Virginia


& it’s my home: we, our only garden


to be conscious in


& still: the sky a field,


as is the lean-to and a thin horizon


of wheat. It was easy


to turn into the tiny


gondolas overhead


that my grandfather


watched as a child.

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