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