San Francisco fairgoers jam grandstands, lean
from open windows, crowd onto roofs, tip
their faces up: Lincoln Beachey
taxis out from the Palace of Machinery,
takes off to applause, lands to ovations.
He performs the Twentieth Century for them.
Officials gather to bestow a medal—
but the medal is not here yet.
Could he go up one more time?
He scrawls autographs, poses for photographs,
jump ropes twirl and children chant:
Lincoln Beachey
thought it was a dream,
soaring up to heaven
in a flying machine . . .
Could he go up one more time?
He climbs in the cockpit, heads out
above the bay, spins through loop
after loop, circles up, loops again, dives.
Halfway down his left wing shears off.
And then—his right.
Hell and damnation,
he’s gone.