A honey muscle of
a plane set down,
refueled, then alighted.
Flying by night
in an arc of ink,
the silvery beast
blinking blue and red
rubies studded upon
its proud wings.
One shuddering blast,
then choking smoke,
erupting from its
Pratt Whitney Scrotum,
engulfed the Transport.
The still photo of
crumpled aluminum
plummeting through
sepia pumice.
Shearing off bamboo,
scorching tall grass,
then leaving craters
smoldering on the
dark side of that moon.
Three minutes transformed
a glistening splinter
navigating through
a star-teased sea, ...
Into an eye lash of
spun tinsel falling
from a momentary grace.
This then was the
phosphorescent fireball
that killed my son
(name, fill in this blank)
specialist firstclass,
(born, fill in this blank).
Being in Love,
the sharing of
Egos.
Loneliness,
in the company
of Things.