Susan Stewart

the survival
of icarus

My father saw the feathers on the waves and grieved
and hadn’t heard the voice within the wind
that blew the wax back into form the way
the cold dawn shapes a candle’s foam.
I had heard that voice before
in some far time beyond this place
and I think of it now as a living net,
though I do not know how it spans our world
or if it sings from its strings or its spaces.