from gold to blue and sun falling again
like parch-skinned Icarus through torrid air
into darkest Mediterranean.
You’re somewhere around Benton, so I’m where
I choose to be: my psyche scaling Crete’s
ancient Ha Gorge, to stand where Daedalus
stood—island’s highest point, so myth completes
its mission as he sees his son’s bolus
spinning to those desperate depths. I dive
to see if I fall or fly. I fly. Soar
over waves to Paximadia, thrive
on sense of landing. Call out across shore
to those youths, Artemis and Apollo:
how they’d love you. They sing back that they do.
Roger Armbrust
July 4, 2013
