On some days I think of Icarus
falling through the sky, the posts
of his wings still inflamed
as he plummets into the cold water.
Brief steam and he is gone.
I picture him coming down from
this blue sky, splashing into the
gulf and the crowd of people
celebrating the new year in the fashion
that one must do these things.
I continue to document words
that are thrown through the waves
in Portuguese and comment on the anger
of the fire that burned his wings
and how he was humbled and
forced to choose a normal existence
here on earth, between hell
and the sky.
There is never a mention of
much hope in the end, once
the sun has made its victory and
reclaimed some sort of throne in the heavens.
There is never a moment when
his broken body is recovered
on the rocky coast and medics
attempt to resuscitate while family
members stand by, terrified and hopeful,
nor is there a thought of the warm wind,
the tourists in bright towels, or the way
the water burns orange in those final
moments when a triumphant sun sets at the
end of another day.