Icarus (after the fall)

Icarus by Sylvia Worthy

the edge of the sea
concerned
with itself

W.C.W.

I don’t love poets. I just love poetry. Poetry is beyond poets. Beyond the long-line, the surreal, the understand-it-all new formalist collection of well-rhymed l a n g u a g e poetry. Poets are grains of sand. Miniscule and irrelevant. Taking a bucket to ocean water, a poet—a good one—is only a bucketful. No more. So don’t rise too high—children of Icarus. Keep close to the ground, where you can see the sun rise from a safe distance. Then, melt, like ice-pop.