With Icarus in a Cloud


I should have fashioned a giant paper airplane

or hitched a ride on the back of a kite

or swung a rope over a pelican,

if I could just crouch small enough

to wrap my arms around his neck

instead of choosing Icarus with all of his

doomed plans, wax and dreaming.


Icarus looks over his shoulder at me, frantically

reapplying wax as sweat runs down his face,

and grins, sure that all errors are forgivable.

Jealous pelicans and seagulls will not peck us

into the ocean where great fish, extinct for centuries now,

simply laugh at us for raising ourselves above them,

for not recognizing how sensible the ocean is

and sure footed land is with its trails and trees

hanging with fruit that the winged ones,

foolish in their endless circling and diving

often miss in their aim or far too greedy grasping.