He had a profile made to cleave the wind,
eyes that burned a hole in any guile,
cruel lips that so carelessly sinned
even while curled around an easy smile,

a chin no friend or foe could withstand,
a nose that could’ve chopped down a tree,
fall colored, wavy hair without a strand
ever out of place or flying free;

even in a classroom or a bar
he seemed to have with him a motor bike,
a biplane, or a pair of skis to ride,

we shook hands, and now there isn’t a star
that since then we haven’t made our own
or a city sky in which we haven’t flown.