How could it ever end,
his silvery jet blades
slicing the day open
like the carcass
of a wide blue animal?
The fire he steals
begins and ends with him,
as migrated wonder,
and he chews on that thrill
like the raw meat it is,
though fear’s a lame buck
flung over his shoulder,
antlers probing deep.
“Kick the tire, light the fire,
and go!” he says,
climbing into an isolation
booth where he lusts
for precision.
Muscle is out of date.
When he asks the computer
to bankroll a loop,
he is six again, playing
Simon Sez. Barrel roll?
he asks with the touch
of a dragonfly
landing on the console,
then accuses a button
with one finger,
and the F-15 veers
wave-lap to stratosphere
in eight seconds,
his G-suit puffs hard
to full leg, full belly,
squeezing toward a heart
already at its limit
able only to pump blood
to the center of his eyes.
Panorama fades:
he sees the world through a small tube:
as he angles straight up
at glass-shattering speed
from deep sea
to the Barbados of dollar
and shack-talk
and cinderella liberty
and bathers recently amazed
by jockeys swimming
thoroughbreds out to the reef.
A wasp, his heartbeat
stings in his chest.
But it’s all so abstract
now: the idea of flight
he rolls around his tongue,
his jet the loudest word
the air speaks,
sound an erupting mumble
that wells
up in his mind,
flits to his finger,
then zooms toward a future
he explodes with a shout.