By Another Icarus Poem by Robert Rorabeck

By Another Icarus



Tiring hands on the sounds between the grasses,
Motes of the slenderest estuaries of light,
Beacons of the microcosms—
Every creature here diminutive in comparison:
Looking up, jet planes shooting like arrows
Across the hemispheres of crowded buildings
Going to the heavens where some
Pine trees struggle to grow up just to peek at
Leggy stewardesses through their elliptical porticos:

I should like to climb them in pursuit of you,
But there is no job title for this: no way to make money
While looking at the sky;
So I stopped closing my eyes in school and drive
A truck across the earth for a living,
Above the grasses, beneath the clouds—
And thoughts of you retreat with the mailboxes
Whose trunks are ringed by everyday daisies as crepuscule
Proceeds

Chasing night into the neighborhoods again,
And the houses of milkmaids and housewives become like
The grottos of darkened aquariums again
You fold into this like moistened origami.
Your children bedecking you
As you go about your business, both night and day,
Searching for something unrecognizable,
Your society already reclaiming you in bits and pieces

You do not dream of the little boys who grow
Up just to find you,
Nor do you turn to see the sun dropping beneath your feet
Flung like a golden disc by another Icarus who tried too hard to
Draw your attention,
Who flew all the way past the moon to steal your memories away.

Wednesday, October 1, 2014
Topic(s) of this poem: love
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Robert Rorabeck

Robert Rorabeck

Berrien Springs
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