On A Young Fighter Pilot

Dark-Winged hawk, transcending
Speed; of sound and light clusters
As you make one more trip
Around the world and back

And you, the young man, you sit
Helmeted breathing a steady flow,
Green-lighted face, young eyes seeing
The night thru' an impersonal machine

Do you yearn, young Fighter, for
The Glory Days, for a closer feeling
To night, a button launches a destroyed
City now--do you wish it not so?

Young pilot, is it in your blood,
Child, do you dream in Dogfights,
In metallic bursts of percussion,
Do you feel disconcerted at all this closed night

The city awaits, mere buttons to
Push below, your shadow does not
Fall but for crystal-vapor clouds
You fly too high, Young Hawk, too high

And my Eagle, do you close your
Eyes (For the Machine is now your
Impersonal plane) do you look beyond-back a
Time of Daring
Do you imagine an enemy
With a Face?

My Young Ace, do your dream
Of Dogfights, barrel-rolling maneuvering,
The sky your plaything, not something
Merely pressed on the Outside of plastic windows.
The air real and not Manufactured with the
Unrealness of Battle...do you Dream
A Landing--

Hellcat-Mustang-Spitfire
A plane with Spirit, as you
Fly-by-Night to an Impersonal City
Too high, my brooding Warrior, too high