Pilot, Lost 1918
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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