Sputtering

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.

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