How far up do you have to fly before the air stops
being Kansas, how far above the hills and sunflowers,
how far above the ghosts and the graves, the highways,
abandoned dogs, strip pits, and bison in cramped pens?
How high above the blood in the fields, the blood
on the church floor? How far beyond the cell towers,
car-part yards, and mining shovels towering over switchgrass?
Does hardship ever end? Is Kansas there too, among
the stars? And if we find Kansas on some broken world
—cratered, fire-haunted—will we love it more or less?
— Chris Anderson