this ultraviolet morning light

In the warm fluorescents of the blessed second floor—

o holy tall tables—

consider the painting

who could only be called

the modern Icarus,

a fractured reflection of the

man and his son tumbling

over my shoulder.

Consider when you fly,

have flown, concrete examples

in past perfect.

A spark in between two ponchos

in a sudden rainstorm.

The harbour sparkling from the Q train.

Running ragged-breathed in autumn.

Perhaps it is not so impossible after all.

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