“In the dimly lit diner, he sipped his coffee and
said: pass the hospital.
On the table, funerals sat dirty on plates.
I looked into his empty playground
and only heard grass stains, or monkey bars
All the slides were dressed in black…”
“Icarus is not for us.
He flies and falls, that’s all. He doesn’t joke
to hide his fear, or seem ashamed…
He’s young and proud. He likes the sound
of his own voice. Of course the world must break
and scatter him among the falling birds.
It’s never him. His father, Daedalus—
he’s our muse, bent to an unforgiving craft
in someone else’s labyrinth, the dark
exile in which he sets himself to work:
letting the candles gutter so the wax
spills, seals vane and down at quill and shaft,
working longer into the thankless night…”