The Man In The Dead Machine in  General   

High on a slope in New Guinea
The Grumman Hellcat
lodges among bright vines
as thick as arms. In 1943,
the clenched hand of a pilot
glided it here
where no one has ever been.

In the cockpit, the helmeted
skeleton sits
upright, held
by dry sinews at neck
and shoulder, and webbing
that straps the pelvic cross
to the cracked
leather of the seat, and the breastbone
to the canvas cover
of the parachute.

Or say the shrapnel
missed him, he flew
back to the carrier, and every
morning takes the train, his pale
hands on the black case, and sits
upright, held
by the firm webbing.

By Donald Hall

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Other poems by Donald Hall:

• A Poet at Twenty
• Affirmation
• An old life
• Christmas party at the South Danbury Church
• Distressed Haiku
• Je Suis une table
• Mount Kearsarge Shines
• Name of Horses
• Sudden Things
• The Alligator Bride
• The Man In The Dead Machine
• Villanelle
• White Apples
• Wolf Knife