Tomorrow for the young poets exploding like bombs
W.H. Auden, “Spain”
He had a dream. And when at last he walked
through the security check, unaware
of the camera capturing his final journey,
he collected his carry-on bag from the X-ray conveyor
with growing confidence and surprise. The gate
waited down the corridor, as patient
as his years of silent preparation.
His comrade’s nervous glances, as bright and quick
as breaking glass, only served to nourish
his certainty: with every step, he grew.
Now he knew why he had learned to fly.
He had a dream. He fastened his seatbelt, closed
his eyes, and ran down the checklist he’d memorized
so many weeks ago, calmer than
a bell unrung. He felt his fingertips
gently stroking the armrests, heard someone beg
his pardon, stood up to let a woman through
to the window seat. The words he spoke
with her were…
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