The hand loses its hold upon the reins.
Across the veins of sky the sun courses,
sweating the glistening sweat of horses
mouthing the wind.
About the surging manes
the muscles arch, flinging the feeble strain
of arms around the rebel neck away.
Incarnadine the waters of the bay,
shrouding the ashen soul that tried to tame
this sun, to twist the whip across the skies.
Turn away the eyes that look up and drown
in the roar of the edging night. Slower
than a falling feather, the evening dies,
a shudder eclipsing the sun.
O Icarus, O Icarus come down.