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67°28S 61°41E


Wake to the glow of landing lights arranged in an A-OK— Air-

traffic ghosts pioneering a runway site for faith— Our savior

touching down at the helm of a 787—


You’re going to be fine, you say. You’re translucent already.


An accidental harpoon-swing— The quick drop of the sun— An

unattached wind at just the wrong moment—


Nobody is to blame for these things. Your gauze, you keep on

saying, looks as healthy as sickness gets.


I can see it now: we’ll march down the runway stairs and scoop up

armfuls of soil, spread it on our bones.


I told you once that God meant for us to connect the dots.


I take it back. My innermost organs are praying for collapse, bright

and heavy, to deliver them.

Dennis Sweeney