Icarus

The sea's turquoise skin, unbroken by white;
mountain-spined islands; minute cities
huddled on hilltops…
Sometimes, clouds
veil my sight, in a trance I imagine
gliding over the world's edge, looking down,
or plummetting into the Underworld
through a volcano core.
What I long for
is to hover like a falcon in the wind:
how furiously, delicately, it works
to be still, the point which sees all else.
I struggle against the unwieldiness
of wings, climb into purer and purer air,
my body dissolves, my spirit floats —
a golden shroud drawn into the heart of light.