can’t be built, of course, the design always a cargo of compromises,
speed versus maneuverability. Gain one; lose the other.
For speed you’ll need sleekness, like a javelin,
the very sound of the word
a spear made for throwing,
short stubby wings
that cut air into thin slices
or no wings at all, if you don’t care
where the damn thing goes. But if you want to turn, to steer, to guide
with maximum control, you’ll need the wings, the bigger the better
but not too heavy,
a substantial tail for long
languorous turns that hang
like a hawk circling or skim
leisurely like a gull across wave tops.
Use a more compact design
for a sparrow’s quick
jinks and dives.
It’s like designing a poem. Some fly
in daylight, some in lamplight, others only in fog.
A poem can glide at cruising altitude or
BOOM
kick-in both afterburners
snap-roll to an inverted position metaphors blazing
the reader hanging upside down in her shoulder straps
the stomach fighting the heart for a better view
until the poem rolls back into level flight and
BOOM
we’re passing through Mach 2
on our way to Mach 3
when suddenly the poem slows down.
This is not the perfect poem, but it could be.
Tear this page carefully from the book and,
using what you have learned, fold it into
the best paper airplane you can make.
Toss it into the air.
If it flies like an F-15, it’s the perfect poem.
from Something to Read on the Plane
Richard Allen Taylor, Poet 