With so many flightless birds, thumping,
striking sides on Kittyhawk, pitting castles against
the clamoring of clicks, a clapboard panoply,
thatch roofed and crusted with barnacles.
It was a weak wheel sputtering, a sail catching
doldrums on an eastern wind bringing rain,
a false-start lover fondly remembered in dotage
the sweet smell of incense wafting over altars.