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.