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.