Don’t worry, Icarus, things are getting heavy
down here too. The minotaurs have fashion
sense, crash our parties, argue with the umpire.
So we’re heading out for good tonight,
spinning hot wax all the way to Mars,
to where the first suburban labyrinth
is designed to descend instead. I hear New Crete
is a city architected like a fist — burrows deep
or punches up (depending on your point of
view), the outer knuckles splitting reddened skin,
bleeding into the dust.
Here it makes sense
to aim lower, go beneath the belt: drink your hubris
rather than be drowned; wear it properly this time,
like a dark dinner jacket.
You’ll want for nothing, but you’ll never soar again.
1 February 2018