Air’s light has grown silent, &the bathwater is being drawn. I open my mouth to say this, I say, I want to be the machine Amelia gave to the heart of the Pacific, but I am only one sky.

I don’t forgive forever my hands which have kept me rooted to a deliberate sun. Nor do I speak of the line &code that ties me apart to the lore of the great constellations.

By night I listen for the rough tongues of creatures who beckon me to sail, who beckon me to begin, &they say to me, Fly down! Fly down, &join us this day for the raising of the cloth.

Seagulls, incendiary, in the ravaging form of warplanes, ignite themselves in the distance between space &sea. Name by name they are falling, they, &the faces they will take of the false bearing among them, saying all the while, they say to them, We are all of us called Amelia, & we are all of us coming home.

Air’s light has kept silent, &the bathwater, still, it is rising. I open my mouth to say this, I say, I want to be the twin-engine Electra, to be driven to the bottom of the sea. But I am only one sky. I am only called We, Amelia, & I am soon to be coming home to lift you by your wayward wings.

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