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three
our pilot attacks heaven without mercy
racing for altitude
an ear-popping ascent ripping through clouds
i grip my seat
i am used to north american comfort
relief
the plane levels
cruising softly
brushing cloud tops
waiting
waiting
waiting
at the last possible moment to land
dive-bombing the runway
like a kamikaze dropping
popping my ears confused vertical vertigo
gripping the ground
relieved
russian arms armed to inspect me
armed and stone faced
a young soldier in a box
his eyes passing back
and forth
from my passport to me
saying nothing
signaling another young soldier
their eyes through me
i try to stare back
i try not to sweat
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