Did we fly too
close to the sun,
its devouring
eye with blinders
full on, beads
of melting wax
loosening each
quill that kept
the whole show
going? It was
among other
things a father
and son story,
let no one tell
us otherwise—
Phaeton and his
pards no less
part of the same
sad tale. One
doesn’t have to
read Ovid from
cover to cover
in order to know
how everything
will end. Or fly
by the seat
of our pants
in a drunken
stupor without
knowing where to
land, that much
is clear. Forget
about Williams’
poem about
Breughel’s
painting—this
isn’t that. Done
by the Elder
or the Younger
does it matter
to you? Do you
really want me
to bury you next
to your daddy’s
grave in Wisco,
sprinkle a little
Skyy on the stone
bearing a name
you didn’t get
to choose? Live
and let live is
not the same
as live and let
die. Let go
and let God is
not the same as
letting your darling
take the big car
out for a little
spin with no one
to watch out
where the story
can’t help but
wanting to go.