Against Myth

/ /

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


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.