A man, with his head thrown back, falls like an angel, heavy with blues, with the slumped weight of earth, pulling him into an embrace of worms.

I have been, often unexpectedly, been A witness to this fall. Last night a wino On Ponce, falling into a cardboard box Under a bridge's overhang, into sleep.

A few hours before that, a man and a woman Seated in a bar saturated with broken glances looked at each other significantly but left home alone, to fall into a lonely slumber

Of what ifs. What if instead of wax, the ties That tie invisible wings to our bodies were made of something stronger - steel? What if every human desire can take off flawlessly into the blue?

Icarus was & is a necessary myth, with both Of his melting wings, with all of his terrible desire To fervidly embrace the stars. And his falling, As the wino fell, as the man & the woman fell,

His head thrown back, his blue body falling Through a cloud of shell burst, a bullet hole In his chest marking his heart's fire, a red Pulsing coin, is necessary to remind all of us,

The earthbound, of the unreachable stars and the trajectory of falls that take us to them.

How should I not be glad to contemplate the clouds clearing beyond the dormer window and a high tide reflected on the ceiling? There will be dying, there will be dying, but there is no need to go into that. The poems flow from the hand unbidden and the hidden source is the watchful heart. The sun rises in spite of everything and the far cities are beautiful and bright. I lie here in a riot of sunlight watching the day break and the clouds flying. Everything is going to be all right.