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Sport 42: 2014


page 257


A spot in my eyes. If not for the pilot
interrupting the audio, I would have
missed it. An island made of coral, he says,
and millennia of migrating birds taking
bathroom breaks. Even up close, Nauru was
hard to make out; an Aucklander in Sydney
regarding a rock that might be worth
a look. The one, all along, propping open
the lab door. Then darkness, lit by mining
machines (see: Earhart and Noonan halfway
to Howland). Ground down, the islanders
scattering. Swooping sounds in Waimate,
an outhouse door ajar. Squint as he might
our father couldn’t see the dust settling.