Confection

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.”

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