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.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s