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The Crop Duster’s Daughter
My head was too large
for words, and I needed (he could see)
corrective lenses.
He papered my crib with awkward bodies
flying faster than
they sound – the Moth was one,
Jumbo another.
When rain on the kennels fell on my sleep
he scrolled with me
around my walls, listened to the din planes made
when I named them.
From below my window I could not grasp
the clouds his pastures drank,
the hard stuff that grounded him.
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