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View From The Siesta Sky

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.

Smoke arises.

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.

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