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Flying: A Letter
remember, if you will, that Thursday afternoon
with the windows down
and salt on our lips
we talked about dying
we talked about flying--some late August night
(shift:
first
second
third
fourth)
over the bridge and through the railing
poised for only a moment
our heads thrown back
tongues soft against the roofs of our mouths
eyes closed and arms outstretched
falling
wrong,
flying
into a night so dark and papered
the creases barely show
(look there! sobbing on your shoulder
a blackness smeared and blotted
with words gasped and slurred)
you and I
we are young and hateful
but oh!
doesn't it sound grand?
A. Hartman
Age 17
Posted 06/19/2007
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