Miles above the Carole Lombard Memorial Bridge,
miles above the brown, dimpled water
of the St. Mary's River, miles above my pocketful
of unspent escudos, the contrail
of a west-bound jet, tinted a very artificial-looking
orange by the setting sun, dissolves in the pink sky
almost as soon as it appears, like
somebody else
and their faraway piece of the world's best candy.
--Michael Derrick Hudson here
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