on the royal jordanian, new york to amman

the plane lands in fields arid and empty
red in the south, and everywhere dusty,

and the dead sea holds its breath, bellows under Pangaea’s plates,
welcomes me home again.

with every landing
my stomach braced,
dusty nostalgia revisited,
my silly hope misplaced:

the fields forget me,
and I forget to forgive it,
assuming always

that my land also sought me.
for having strayed for so long,
another home had caught me.

how quickly i forget,
here I’m but a guest,
anf no matter how far i roam,
i am only tense at rest

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