for my father, 1922-1944 br br Your face did not rot br like the others--the co-pilot, br for example, I saw him br br yesterday. His face is corn- br mush: his wife and daughter, br the poor ignorant people, stare br br as if he will compose soon. br He was more wronged than Job. br But your face did not rot br br like the others--it grew dark, br and hard like ebony; br the features progressed in their br br distinction. If I could cajole br you to come back for an evening, br down from your compulsive br br orbiting, I would touch you, br read your face as Dallas, br your hoodlum gunner, now, br br with the blistered eyes, reads br his braille editions. I would br touch your face as a disinterested br br scholar touches an original page. br However frightening, I would br discover you, and I would not br br turn you in; I would not make br you face your wife, or Dallas, br or the co-pilot, Jim. You br br could return to your crazy br orbiting, and I would not try br to fully understand what br br it means to you. All I know br is this: when I see you, br as I have seen you at least br br once every year of my life, br spin across the wilds of the sky br like a tiny, African god, br br I feel dead. I feel as if I were br the residue of a stranger's life, br that I should pursue you. br br My head cocked toward the sky, br I cannot get off the ground, br and, you, passing over again, br br fast, perfect, and unwilling br to tell me that you are doing br well, or that it was mistake br br that placed you in that world, br and me in this; or that misfortune br placed these worlds in us.