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.
How people go on, and how people don’t.
It was almost a year before I learned
that his brother was a pilot.
I can’t help it,
I love the way men love.