Pilot, Lost 1918
Sally Mohney

Marne moon:  cold and full

He drops from the sky, ash-hot
into fog forest.  Fallen Reims angel
cradled by beech, birch, oak or elm.
River willows bend, nave-like.

A village away, the observatory
is a blind sea of blasted brick.
A crumbling abbey holds aloft
four gnawed chimneys, as candles.

Moss and stone creep
over ancient baths,
more wine cellars than streets.

His body is baptized, anon

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