As if it were on fire, the earth around us aches with
burgundy and ochre. The sun herself has dimmed;
an apology for the wrong she has done you.
Man-made angel, wings of wax and stolen feather,
melted against the heat of a grieving sun.
You played with the fates and so your string was cut.
The ladies of the river cry tears of salt and sorrow.
They dress you in their misery, silken fingers grazing
against scorched and lifeless skin.
Now, Icarus, you meet your final glory and
escape from Crete. Do you know the ties that bind you
have no bearing where you’ve gone?