Don’t look for Icarus too long

A rush of wings quieted the technicolor spectrum
and sliding over the grass when I blinked at my feet
reverted the meadow to Kansas,

1939, behind falcon-framed shades and dizzy grays.
The moment shattered belief in Emerald City,
as gymnastic contortions pulled vision

up through a waxy and blurred lens—kaleidoscopic
in its melting flowers and stars released from shadow.
The taloned eclipse keeps rising,

and I smile again through eyes that stole the sun’s blue glare,
though next time I might only glance
at the circling dot.



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