on the last living ace

the pond grows in circumference each
cold morning- the protestations on the
doorway of tired bones,

cracking together, knitting to
stumble around, in october, the
same childhood pond-

and at night the clouds turn
sickly yellow. being only does
not dull dreams, nor the shuddering
moan of the airplanes overhead-

when they had made
little sound, when they
had galloped with the
head of an outlaw horse against
the cold foreign sky-

but raising a hand now
to pencil the clouds is
a day's task-

the letters stopped coming one year. and the next
the pond almost gaped a new mouth, the grass
running into molehill clods, so new for earth-
bound navigation, when once the braying hounds

lifted their heavy paws from the wheaten fields-

the television is on. black-
white photographs line along the mantle, it is cold
even in winter, the fire

and at night the windows slammed shut,
against the encroachment of those
new planes-
ponderous beasts

where once as in the vulpine swiftness above the flowered
meadows they had leapt

about the
aqueous clouds,
like a pond

a giant pond