Punched up—the plane, pushed, rockets into sky,
engine rotating, coughs to catch on air.
The roar cuts off and sinks into a sigh
to mark the stall before the spiral stair
spin, wings careening down into the glisten
of salt, spectators stand and suck their breath
back in, no gravity, no noise. Listen
to the waves laugh until he makes the death-
defying turn, unfurling the metal straight
across the gleaming ocean like a sail
that’s leapt right off the boat, its only fate
to fly. The crowd, still waiting to exhale,
yearns for relief, and on firm sand below,
a seagull, in disbelief, stares at the show.


From At the Table of the Unknown (Moon Tide Press, 2019).
Used here with permission.