Daedalus and Icarus

folded hands shut

dusk folded itself to the trains
overhead the curtains came shutters
skylights into maps,

fathers laid our heads down
sorted from the streetlight, once engulfed
sighed sun through the canopy in dust
in the tall grass we hear only a rustle

cross the waves this bronzen city
our holiest bow at its sunken grace
in vines we have buried the windows, climbing upwards
your statues fell beside the tracks
in the rattle of these distant sounds
Icarus, bound to the rail

they are remaking the moon in wax
and tie the branches in silhouetted strings

mice scurry on the floors of the towers
the trees collide through the windows, one
leaf singed through the road
cars cut through the bottom of the sky

Apollo & Daphne

first time around
draped the ardent paths from the clouds
engraved; & sold the adobe mountain

Briefcase fell open, wisps of paper fell in the sky
sun shone still through hollowed logs
Nile delta fell onto the branch

sat and stared still,
in father's denim, pulled down the clothesline
across the shed threw the kitchen in tiles

twisted cloth& silt from the hands
wrap the city in ceramic folds
this slight echo in the telephone lines

faltered from the wires overhead
jumped over the logs in flight
locks fell from place,

wrap the forest in glass
transmission got tangl'd in the laurel
yellowed tape around the trunk

4 AM the clock busts open panting
television's mute flash on the blankets;
breakfast mid-dawn, slippers on the plastic tiles
bus to the hospital, forty-five minutes on the hour
pallid sky rested through the window;
priests rest outside the rooms
hands clung to the hospital bed
and Apollo lands outside on the curb
arrow pierced the elbow

A Sonnet For My Raisins

out of cardboard crafted piers.
children found chairs in a car garage, whistling-
songs of magazine pages, torn, appeared
captured in an oil stain underfoot.

similarly I have found the sun
atop cardboard stained red, singes:
the edges of desk, paper stung in
the reddened tips of our fingers.
"Sun-Maid" atop the mount, some
mottled odalisque. Beauty is more
of an absolute when you have spent
the last fifteen years poor,
wringing your hands and staring out
the window of a raisin factory.

"airplanes are heaven,ships deserve to sing"

Seven hours I hold together
my arms, colliding into the edges of my seat.
A hollow drone rises from the floor. Sometimes
I mistake the snoring behind me for
engine failure.

Eno's "Music for Airports" was written with the presumption
that music in airports should not be repeatedly telling people
"you are not going to die,
you are not going to die,"
rather it should be telling people
"It's alright if you die."
the in-flight movie today works similarly, some tame
mistake made by a hapless youth
which results in about five years of turmoil
followed by a quiet marriage,
a full pension and
frequent air travel.


Kitty Hawk, 1901 our newfound wings
broke from the sand to burst into the air
leaves our immobility in its shadow,
so our conquest for the sky concludes.
Icarus's dazed Mediterranean path became straight lines, our fatal blasphemy
now comes with a complimentary bag of peanuts.

the man next to me
straightens his collar, lies his briefcase behind his legs
stares out the window with a worn sigh and
falls asleep. A lulling hum rises from the floor.