Love Field

First, a black mark in the sky,
                a speck that grows

into a plane widening,
                dramatically circling
before it touches
                a gray strip of land
designed for its landing.

Then the players descend
                the wheeled stair

to the stage
                 for the cameras,
our collective eye:

                first her, then him,
as is custom,
                and their entourage
trailing behind,

                those who believe
the world is young
                and the future spreads
out like geography.

It's the beginning
                of all that,
                and what a show it is,

the bouquet of roses
            we see given to her
on the scratchy screen,

the film pouring its light,
                edges burned.

And who knows what's truth,
               what's myth,
or if they arrive
                as hawks or doves,

brave with risk
                in a bright and swirling
land where the dust
seems to crown
               from its own gray dust.

Here's the raw footage.
        Here's the film
clicking in the projector,

and, as all things seen
                through it
                are black and white,
isn't it important to note

                her roses are red
and not yellow,

                and that neither of them
squints in the bright Texas sun?

If you can stand
                what the light inside
the darkness does
                 to your eyes,
                 watch them pause there
for a moment:
                 our champion, our grace,

in that high noon
                 that holds all
the freshness of the morning.

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Love Field