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When the plane went down in San Francisco, I thought of my friend M. He's obsessed with plane crashes.

He memorizes the wrecked details, The clear blue skies cut by black smoke.

Once, while driving, he told me about all the crashes: the one in blue Kentucky, in yellow Iowa.

How people go on, 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.

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