AN INCOMPLETE HISTORY OF

airports      in the beginning
there was one daffodil
room     one large sky
     people spat & wondered
at their thumbs     milky
in their eyes     yellowed
in their teeth     people
twitched with urine desire    
     walked towards limestone
& language     grain
& telephones & all 
the rest     then fluorescent
lit concrete     pristine
with smiling attendant     people
talked     ate     slept     left
on the nine forty-five nonstop 
to Dulles     with reasonably priced
tickets     time passed     
     as it does     onion smell
piled up     standing in
line became a worship    
     remove shoes for movable
altar     bathrooms
stayed bathrooms     remember
the awful prick & pressure
of cabin air     as we pluck
today's long sleeved marrow

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AN INCOMPLETE HISTORY OF

desire      in the beginning
a scratched throat     a throat
scratched     a mouth as empty           
as Wyoming     a Wyoming
as empty as     //     hyssop
dipped in salt water     heated
in a throat     heat born
again as Wyoming     itself
dipped in fields of dried
salt water     spit from
a scratched     //     o
careful something or other
     wonderful throat
of Wyoming     o born again
heat     rope limbed
creature     fields of fields
of empty     o hyssop
left to dry along
a salted fold
of mouth     //     somewhere
this thing called pleasure
makes a white picket     
     until we find
that place     that field
creatured     that house 
throated     until then please
spit in & around my mouth

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With history itself entirely subject to political and economic violence's, what might happen if we look at the space lingering around a history? Call this looking an incomplete history. What does this tell us about [noun]? What does it tell us about the person thinking and writing about [noun]?