for my father, 1922-1944

Your face did not rot 

like the others--the co-pilot, 

for example, I saw him



yesterday. His face is corn-

mush: his wife and daughter, 

the poor ignorant people, stare



as if he will compose soon. 

He was more wronged than Job. 

But your face did not rot



like the others--it grew dark, 

and hard like ebony; 

the features progressed in their



distinction. If I could cajole 

you to come back for an evening, 

down from your compulsive



orbiting, I would touch you, 

read your face as Dallas, 

your hoodlum gunner, now,



with the blistered eyes, reads 

his braille editions. I would 

touch your face as a disinterested



scholar touches an original page. 

However frightening, I would 

discover you, and I would not



turn you in; I would not make 

you face your wife, or Dallas,

or the co-pilot, Jim. You



could return to your crazy 

orbiting, and I would not try 

to fully understand what



it means to you. All I know 

is this: when I see you, 

as I have seen you at least



once every year of my life, 

spin across the wilds of the sky 

like a tiny, African god,



I feel dead. I feel as if I were 

the residue of a stranger's life, 

that I should pursue you.



My head cocked toward the sky, 

I cannot get off the ground, 

and, you, passing over again,



fast, perfect, and unwilling 

to tell me that you are doing 

well, or that it was mistake



that placed you in that world, 

and me in this; or that misfortune 

placed these worlds in us.