The airport is brand new, shiny like a penny with big windows and high ceilings. Everything changes, grows, moves with the generations. You know the mountains outside the glass like the skin on your lovers neck but these gates are unknown. A mosquito gets trapped near your seat and you wonder what it’s like to emigrate against your will. My bag is full of bubble wrapped heirlooms, 200 years of building lives. On the back porch last night I sat staring at the stars and thought 200 years is nothing to them and I wondered if that was sad or a relief. Edward abbey sits in the south Utah desert and eons go by under his fingertips, perhaps there are others like you out there.
I was always slow, about all of it. But I think perhaps I wasn’t
always
wrong.
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