Icarus lay
in the framing remains
of his ill-gotten plumage,
each rill of feather
waxen and stiff

So there was no catching
the wind.
Like there was no catching
the gathering light.

As if it could be held.
As if it could be
popped into his mouth
and rolled around like a confection
on his tongue, against his teeth.

“Yes,” he said, “let us eat
the blood-red bead, the sun.”


Another Poem

What rough chemistry is this?
Raw like an eye suspended
in a solution of worried sleep,
and raw like the roughened tuber
moving earth with its growing
to molder in this deep, red earth.

One thing and then the other diverge
at different rates, and I will pay
interest on the difference.

In that water tower rust bloomed
and I am drinking it.
Frost bloomed inside the glass
that I put against my lips.