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
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 ),
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,
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.