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.