by James Tate

    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 blistered¹ eyes， reads

    his braille editions. I would

    touch your face as a disinterested²

    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 fully³ 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 residue⁴ 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 unwilling⁵

    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.

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