by Meghan Kemp-Gee
(after Kay Sage)
I bless you with a future morning,
an airship. We are dirigible.
Our work is throat-work:
wood, wind in the sails.
Our work is, we over-
look the plain. Treeless,
ghost elephants and whalefalls.
Ghost hayfever, bless you.
Riverbanks, disaster.
Airsickness, woodwinds.
Not our own survival,
the third sleep, folding
ropes. Trunks, folding
skyline, sun-baked ivory.
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