Now come, we must bask
in the overwhelming
moonlight and tango dance
until we are consumed
by beauty and can hope
for redemption no more
only to know that the truth
lies somewhere between this plane
and the next,
on flight 814 out of Toledo
a Boeing 747 made
in nineteen sixty-four
held together by wood pulp
and ice, floating on the ether
while it skims our dreams
and we hold each other’s hands
and keep faith that it boarded
the right flight.
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