I see Icarus, of all things

   traversing the cracked panes,

   one of six.

Icarus of glue

   holds the cracked glass

   as his silhouette is drawn.

The breadth of Icarus,

 magnificent against paling day.

One century of dirt does not obscure him,

   though paling day is paler yet because of it.

No, the gummy application of some insulating stroke

is Icarus,

   one long stroke, interrupted by a single, slight vertical.

His incarnate image still crosses the crossed sky,

tips touching panes, the wind required him

   and now seeps against his back, but wait:


there is a wind for every Icarus

and an Icarus for each wind

( you will need your grid ),

                                            but wait:


The sun is down.

Our yellow light undoes the silhouette.

He has not been here before,

   we’ve not looked upon him,

never seen more than the peculiar grey

  that is distant color.

Now, as the gum receives frontal light,

   Is Icarus Icarus?

This different grey

   will be different yet

   with the fulfillment of night.



in my mind,

   the shape is Icarus.

He still spans the great blue rectangle

that is sky,

but with the coming of night

   will Icarus survive the absence of blue context?

Is the image of span enough,

resilient against the yellow interior

that punctures our picturing?


I will stay here tonight,

tomorrow too,

and give myself to this demand

   ( this is what free men do ),

and perhaps, on such a special occasion

give in to speculation,

and speculate on the hand,

that applied insulating gum

and with no cosmetic intent,

   put Icarus over the wind.