When the plane went down in San Francisco,
I thought of my friend M. He’s obsessed with plane crashes.
He memorizes the wrecked metal details,
     the clear cool skies cut by black scars of smoke.
Once, while driving, he told me about all the crashes:
The one in blue Kentucky, in yellow Iowa.
It was almost a year before I learned
his brother was a pilot.
I can’t help it,
I love the way men love.

Ada Limón, “Accident Report In The Tall, Tall Weeds,” from Bright Dead Things (via bostonpoetryslam)

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