IN THE HANGAR OF AN OUTFIT 
       by Terry Morrison (tlmorris@ix.netcom.com)

       in the hangar of an outfit
       between Beaumont and China, Texas
       mechanics huddle around a gas heater
       silent as lunch boxes

       the crop duster who gave
       who gave consonance to their engines
       who learned the sky
       because he could not understand the earth
       was dragged from his cockpit
       so broken
       we buried him in a sack

       how quickly their wrenches have turned to bones
       their tool boxes to the silos of dead men

       outside
       vultures chew at old flight patterns
       other hungry birds circle above the hangar
       like open pliers
       their eyes dark as grease