quaint

    quaint

too often
i’ve seen myself
an aviator at the
edge of dawn
in a shot-through
tiger moth that
bit by bit has
fallen away
the swinging tail
struts and wire
come undone
along the wing
the wings themselves
the very fuselage
all broken away
gone and there’s only
a man up there holding
to a lever while sailing
through miles of the air
seated as if he’s still
in a plane
goggles pulled back
on his forehead
an aviator’s cap
like spaniel’s ears
sailing on through
the dawn afraid
to touch the
cockpit rim
lest he know
the fact of
the matter
the final crash
now just
a matter
of time.

june 11, 2012
panmuretiger moth

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