Kitty Hawk

Anathema, brother, for leaving her corpse in the sand,
flecked with sea salt and Atlantic City kisses.
Now I’ll have to hear her when the wind blows,

and it will remind me of the time when I could still fly
with my wooden wings over Roanoke Sound.
How I miss those days with the ocean below.

But I guess time has its own way of working,
and I shouldn’t lose my limbs over some old notion,
that I already fulfilled the first time we kissed.

And how are you? I forgot to ask,
how is the view from ten miles high?
I already miss you, brother, my only friend.
How is that view from ten miles high?

Oh, I hope you hear me,
so far away.