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At Last 
 
On Easter morn 
we lift off, shakily, 
in a bucket of bolts 
held together, or not, 
with skill and spit. 
Another day in Paradise. 
Just low scud over the Nam 
and cool at angels two-five. 
Last sortie carrying thoughts 
of back in the world. 
Screeching strobes stir 
the steaming jungle 
with seeking scythes 
and forever seconds. 
Constricted sphincters, all. 
Upside down and pull 
of stick to fly the crescent, 
only to confront the same 
indifferent homing hunter. 
Break the other way, please, 
pilot.