Rust. It's not hard to see
the untimely slouch of metal wing.
Yaw and split. Rust
on the wing, musk on the wind
lurid to the nose,
bitter mingled (better mangled) with the fire of sweat.
Fear. It's not hard to see
the nervous grind of eyes on windows
hoping rust holds out
or rather
holds in the wind /
holds in the wing.
But if this fucking thing is going down
then I'm going to enjoy the ride.
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