You are always there, Icarus,
frozen in our minds in mid-fall
for the sport of us poets
who are compelled to wring
meaning out of the thinnest air
like second-rate magicians.
You are always there with your trite
moral and wax wings for us
to trip over in our lemming rush
to frame your mythical fumble.
Each night we see you
in our nightmares, the bright flash
going off just as your wings
melt away from your slender back
and you begin your long slow tumble,
the cinematic cart-wheeling
of a stunt double. The water
and your father’s screams
are coming up quickly,
and no architectural masterpiece
or sculptural invention,
no end of cunning making can compare
to the art of a son falling through air.
