Ice age

Through steam and sweat,
A green patch welcomes
You, Icarus.

The window of Winter
Opens your bones, 
wrapped in poultice
Of farm flowers, soaked
in liquor. Not brown,
But clear syrup. The kind
That gives burlap and calyx
A melting fragrance.

Say softly
With wax lips,
the same prayer
That blew into your wings,
And know that promise and vision exists.

Into the vortex, Icarus,
See yourself
As a luminous moth, pale
As a petal, sharp
As a nettle, clean
As a quiet moment.

Lay hands on the minute,
a gift. A promise
Released from the fist
Of a corpse,
No longer needed.
Breathe the extract in
Careful atonement.
The lights in the street glimmer
In powdery dew on your bed clothes.

Fold up your shoulders,
Icarus. I give you my deepest
Condolence, with eyes cast down,
Focused on the mound,
Where beetles come crawling.

Black doves of the soil
Churn honor and exist
To winnow the night
From the dreamers,
The crops of crow carcass 
And toys of the children who fall,
Magnificent dolls.


3/4/22