holes in the outer banks
It’s all the talk at Kitty Hawk
Hotels and loblolly in tombs of sand;
Wilbur calls them whaleheads,
Orville calls them living dunes.
Digging holes in the Outer Banks
Is like a central artery to Boston,
A non-stop to New Guinea
Via the Einstein-Rosen bridge.
Faults and flexures
Dance like marionettes in fan blades;
Houses on rollers can’t outrace the sand waves.
It’s all the talk at Kitty Hawk
The year they find
Her landing gear on Lewark’s Hill.
The same worms that ate
Up Seagull in the ‘50s
Ate Amelia, too.
But still she tunnels on
Slickcalm through a tarmac
The color of a little red bus.
FROM THE AMELIA EARHART SPECIAL
ABOUT THE ARTIST
Damon Hubbs is the author of two chapbooks —Coin Doors & Empires (Alien Buddha Press) and The Day Sharks Walk on Land (Alien Buddha Press). His poems have been featured in Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Roi Fainéant Press, Otoliths, APOCALYPSE CONFIDENTIAL, Horror Sleaze Trash and elsewhere. He lives in New England. Twitter: @damon_hubbs
Image created on Stable Diffusion
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