Twin-engine prop jet, Morgantown terminal.
One runway. During rev-up I notice
the dandelions, yellow buttons in spring’s
new green. They’ll launch later.
Up, we wheel toward Pittsburgh
and buck on the invisible shocks
of carnival air. It’s a county fair
ride up here—knocks,
dips and whoop-de-doos. I use
my ticket for a bookmark,
close the box of words
and watch West Virginia slide.
Down there a train makes its way
like a sentence, cars distinct as parts of speech.
It works along a river,
supple for an archaic mode.
Coal, stone, grains and lumber.
Those antique loads could not be lifted.
Locality pulls back on being pulled.
Language only half releases. Its drag is true.
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